The Beautiful
by Radie
Summary: Through sacrifice, they will attain progress. Through force, they attain sacrifice. They hide in plain sight, as seemingly devoted followers and innocuous traders. Simple farmers. Artists. Paupers. They are The Beautiful. They are everywhere, and the Dominion will not realize it until they are breathing down their necks.
1. Ondolemar

The Nord looked small, frail, weak. It was a stark contrast to how he had been in the previous weeks, wagging his tongue and snarling that the Thalmor would never be able to prove their "wild" accusations. Rather, Ogmund looked the very picture of mortified when he was escorted to Understone Keep and practically thrown into the war room. His eyes were like those of a wounded rabbit as he caught sight of the gleaming trinket dangling from Ondolemar's fingers.

He could only smile from his seat on the table, swaying his prize like a pendulum. The chain clinked with every swing, the axe-head pendant gleaming in the flickering glow of the Dwemer gas lights.

"I understand you're missing something," the Thalmor chuckled, lifting his face so his eyes just barely peeked from beneath his hood. "Fortunately for you, somebody had the presence of mind to turn it in to an authority figure. How considerate of them."

The old skald was silent, his good eye never leaving the Amulet of Talos in Ondolemar's hands. His tongue seemed dry and his voice became mysteriously absent as he opened and shut his mouth repeatedly, like a fish drowning in open air. Leather boots scuffed on the floor as he shuffled closer, hand lifting weakly to grasp at his confiscated necklace.

Ondolemar smirked and, with a flick of his wrist, brought the amulet up into his palm and wrapped his fingers tightly around it. No sooner was it out of sight did Ogmund snap out of his trance. He blinked, his aged face tilted upward, and in the span of seconds he progressed from one stage of grief to the next.

Denial became anger. He fumbled for words at first and then lunged, fingers once reserved for his lute now tangled in the collar of Ondolemar's robes. The Altmer only grinned wider, damn near wolfishly, and his grip on the amulet tightened.

"How in the _nine_ hells did you manage to get that?" Ogmund growled, giving a good, hard shake. Ondolemar hadn't expected an old, retired bar singer to have much in the way of strength, but he felt his brain rattle with every thrashing. Still, his ego fed off of Ogmund's hatred like a starving vampire. The reaction just cemented his belief that he had won.

"Answer me, for the love of Talos!"

Anger began to deteriorate into grief. Understandable, given how vicious Thalmor tended to be with Talos worshipers. They attacked anyone with an amulet on sight, they butchered men who could not confess to what they did not know, they locked people away for years upon years and watched them wither and die. There was no such thing as "I don't know" and no concept of innocence. If the roles were reversed, Ondolemar would be shook up enough to begin preemptively grieving his own death as well.

Ondolemar only watched wordlessly, swaying with Ogmund's increasingly frail throttling. The man was breaking even before being taken into custody, even before being told his fate. It was fascinating, if not sad, to see a man so respected and strong crack like a warbler egg. He could even claim there was some feeling of smug joy in seeing the old bastard tremble after how much trouble he had put the justiciar through.

After a while, Ogmund let go and stumbled away. He looked lost and confused, more disoriented than a khajiit after a bad sip of skooma. The poor fellow seemed like he entertained the idea of fleeing but they both knew that, beyond the heavy metal door, there stood two heavily-armed Thalmor guards who were just itching to run him through.

Which was why Ondolemar had to speak. He had to keep him inside, to keep him from meeting his end on the tip of a bodyguard's blade. After all, what use would Ogmund be in a box in the Hall of the Dead?

"I have friends," he answered dryly. "Cowardly friends desperate to make nice with the Dominion, willing to do whatever a man in a black robe asks so long as they are led to believe it will ingratiate them with us. In this case, an opportunistic sell-sword with no morals beyond what he's paid to have."

Ogmund's edge came back, a furious look of hatred growing across his weathered face. He inched towards the door and prepared for the worst, but was stopped when Ondolemar pitched his amulet into the middle of the floor. Both men stared at it, the Altmer encouraging the old skald with a nod although Ogmund was understandably hesitant. His hands twitched and his feet danced as he shifted closer and snatched it up, looking very much like a man pulling fallen food from a campfire.

"You must be planning to kill me now," Ogmund muttered. Ondolemar looked away, focusing his gaze on a flag-marked map of Skyrim draped over a table to the side of the room.

"I'll kill you _if_ you tell anybody I just did that."

"What game are you playing, _elf_?"

Ah, the ever-popular "elf" insult, thrown about by the barbaric Nords as though they believed merkind had a reason to be ashamed. He briefly wondered what would happen if he had reduced himself to snarling the word "human" at the man. Perhaps Ogmund would be offended, or perhaps he would realize just how idiotic his people's insults had become.

"No game," he answered, standing from the table and brushing off his robes. "I'm just delivering a message, albeit creatively."

"Well, I missed the meaning," Ogmund replied, back practically pressed against the door. Ondolemar's head whipped around, his eyes gleaming in anger as he gestured Ogmund closer with a paternal wag of his finger. Surprisingly, the Nord listened. Whether it was out of curiosity or fear, he could not say.

"The meaning is simple. You've been pardoned. Nobody will have to know about what you do in the privacy of your own home so long as you agree to do a favor for me."

"Bah, I'd never—"

"Ogmund, I am warning you. I have just barely proved what I am capable of. I can make or break you. I am the difference between another meal at that blasted inn or your final meal in an isolated prison!"

"You have no bargaining chip," the skald snickered, displaying his blasphemous knick-knack proudly. "You gave it back."

"Yet I got it in the first place. Rest assured that there are more people out there willing to sell an old man out for a couple of coins than there are kind, gentle people who support your heretical cause. Even if there's not, I cannot lie and say I don't have the knowledge necessary to get into any house in Markarth."

The stunned expression on the old man's face prompted a chuckle from Ondolemar. Robes billowing around him like a shroud of pure night, he paced from the well-lit center of the room to the shadowy edges, practically disappearing as he slipped himself between Ogmund and the door. In the darkness, only his face was visible, yellow eyes glinting like gold.

"What do you want?" Ogmund demanded furiously. Despite his anger, his voice shook with concern. Ondolemar could understand this as easily as he could understand his emotional reaction to getting caught. Torture was sometimes preferable to the schemes of the Thalmor. He knew that much from experience.

The elf chuckled and leaned against the door, the metal creaking under his weight. He pounded his fist once against it, a low boom echoing through the room and the dank halls of Understone Keep. After a few moments, he was answered with two from the other side. A smile crept across his lips. Initially, he had developed the signal as a way of letting his guards know interrogations were going smoothly.

Now, it was quite handy to figure out if those twits were still there.

Slipping closer to Ogmund, before the old man could protest, Ondolemar slipped his fingers around the man's jaw and leaned in uncomfortably close. The look of abject horror on his face and the rosy coloration that filled the old man's cheeks revealed just _how_ uncomfortably close. The Nord was frozen, waiting for the worst, anticipating it all the more when a smile became a smirk and a breathy laugh hissed out from between Ondolemar's teeth.

His lips pressed against the old man's ear. Ogmund's eyes clenched shut and he started to pull away, held firmly in place by the surprising strength of the Altmer who dug his free hand into the chest piece of his leather armor. His heart skipped a beat, he offered a hoarse whisper of protest, and was stopped only by the sound of Ondolemar's voice.

"Quiet now. They're just outside."

Ogmund swallowed hard. He shook. He said nothing.

"You are at the inn often, yes?"

A small, weak nod.

"Good. I have a request of you, then. Nothing illegal, nothing dangerous. I need eyes outside the Keep. _I cannot leave_."

Ogmund blinked and his body relaxed slightly. He still clenched his jaw like a corpse, however, and Ondolemar could feel the muscles tighten beneath his skin.

"You will work for me and you will never be forced to walk the shameful walk to Northwatch."

"What is it?" Ogmund demanded, his voice cracking. "Do you want me to bear testimony against the fellow worshipers of Talos? To tell you where the temple is hidden in Markarth?"

"You mean the one in the alley beneath the Temple of Dibella?"

Ogmund's eyes went wide and he attempted to turn to face his captor, stopped by the death grip Ondolemar had on his jaw. His gaze struggled at the very least, eyes straining to see the elf better in order to gauge his expression.

"So long as you obey my orders, I plan on doing no harm to the temple, or you, or any of the other whelps who decided to deem a man divine."

"Then would you finally tell me what you need?" Ogmund growled, fighting against his panic.

"I need you to watch the gates of Markarth for me."

"That's it?"

The incredulousness of Ogmund's voice was amusing, and the tone and look of exasperation was enough to let Ondolemar know the man had been stunned out of his state of fear. Brows furrowed and head quirked to the side, the old man gazed up at the Altmer with an expression of utter bewilderment. Ondolemar, however, grew serious.

"You will let me know if you see Stormcloaks. They are the least of my concerns, but I'd prefer to not die cornered in a craggy deathtrap in the middle of a frozen waste. More importantly, you will let me know if you see agents of the Dominion."

The confusion intensified and Ogmund shifted his weight uneasily. He was obviously weighing in his mind whether this was some manner of set up. It likely seemed like it, but he hoped the skald was either too trusting or too stupid to doubt his promise of amnesty in exchange for the task.

"Why the bloody hell do you want me to tell you when your own kind gets here?" he finally sputtered.

"I am under no obligation to explain myself. You will watch for Thalmor—hell, for _any_ Altmer who comes waltzing in, asking questions—and you will report to me immediately. You will speak to nobody of this, not even my guards. You will do this, or I will ensure that you spend the remainder of your pitiful life _wishing_ you had."

Against Ondolemar's will, a hint of desperation became apparent in his voice. It was the one hint Ogmund needed to realize that something was not entirely right. Hatred and confusion were replaced by curiosity, his fury and grief forgotten although the wariness remained.

"Who are you?" he finally asked after a lengthy pause. "If I am going to sell my soul to the Thalmor, I ought to know that much."

"I am Ondolemar, head of the justiciars in Skyrim. Rest assured, you are not selling your soul to the Thalmor."

With a burst of bravery, the bard stepped closer, ramming a finger into Ondolemar's chest. The aggression was returning, but it was fueled less by hatred than frustration, evident by the fact he still kept his voice respectfully low. Low enough, Ondolemar hoped, to be missed by his guards.

"Don't you go yanking my chain, _elf_," he spat. "Who are you _really_? No 'head of the justiciars' would live in fear of his own men. You should be untouchable!"

The elf grinned. Ogmund was a clever one, and it was out of respect for that that Ondolemar felt the need to oblige him. Slipping closer, his eyes better fitting a hungry wolf, he offered a low chuckle and a twisted smile. Despite his haughtiness, he found it difficult to raise his voice above a dead whisper, panicked that the echoing halls would carry his confession to ears that shouldn't know.

"I am Beautiful. We are everywhere."


	2. The Sisters

"Blasted…!"

Endarie's voice ripped through the silence of Radiant Raiment like an arrow, loud enough to spook Taarie and cause her to spill her snowberry tea. With a grimace and a curse, she slowly rose from her seat and gazed down in disgust and horror at the wet, red splotch on her dress. She usually loved her dear sister but, in that moment, she wanted nothing more than to strangle the life out of her lovely little body.

Brushing blond locks out of her face, Taarie shuffled awkwardly across the floor as though _somehow_ moving slower would make the stain better. Her arms stayed lifted to her side, her legs spread as she hobbled, shoes padding against the floor like the footsteps of an unsure toddler. Across the counter, she could see Endarie fussing with _something_—something dark and leather and embroidered with gold. A needle was in her hand, thread tangled in her teeth, and she had a look on her face which brought to mind a rabid bear.

"I have _no_ idea what the bloody Dominion makes their bloody robes out of, but I have not had this much trouble since working with that wretched guar skin that gods-blasted Dunmer brought me from Blacklight!"

"Maybe it _is_ guar," Taarie answered, dodging into their room and shutting the door. As she walked, she threw off her belt and peeled her dress over her head, discarding it in a corner. It was of no use now, stained with snowberry, but perhaps she could salvage some material off of it to make something nicer. Tiptoeing across the tile floor in nothing but her smallclothes, she threw open the door to her wardrobe and began running her finger across her many garments.

Today was not a green day, and red made her look like a rusted Dwemer statue. The blue was nice, but it was too warm for the fur cloak and _that_ was what made the ensemble. Perhaps black would work the best, since a massive tea stain on the skirt of a black dress wouldn't be noticeable after a few washings. Then again, did she really want to face the world as a mourner?

She supposed it was appropriate. Endarie made her ruin her favorite dress, and she grieved for its loss like one would grieve for their own child. Would the customers understand, though? Probably not.

Blue it was.

"No, guar is lumpy and smells of must and mold," Endarie called through the door, her agitation obviously growing. "This is too pliable. Too soft. Gods, do they butcher _horses_ and make clothing from the pelts?"

"I would say no, but considering how old fashioned that lot is, I'm surprised they're not screaming in the old tongue and dancing around in furs with the stronghold orcs."

She slipped the blue dress on, checked to ensure that her petticoat wasn't visible under the edge, and then secured the fur cloak across her shoulders with a broach crafted by the finest jeweler in Summerset Isle. The emerald gleamed and glistened like a cat's eye, the perfect complement to her obviously radiant attire. She took down her hair and smoothed it down, twirling like a young girl in front of her mirror to watch the skirt twirl about like butterfly wings.

Beautiful.

"Who brought it in anyway?" Taarie called out as she modeled for herself, chuckling a bit at her own ridiculousness. She was far too old to act like a vain young maiden, but she could excuse herself by saying it was for business purposes. If she looked her best then perhaps it would draw in more customers, all of them dying to be as gorgeous as the mer who crafted their clothes.

"Was it Ondolemar?" she continued. "Another case of getting his coattails caught on the rocks or a busted pipe? The dogs again?"

When Endarie didn't answer, Taarie sighed and finally made her way to the shop proper. She hadn't expected anyone other than her sister so early in the day and, when she flung the bedroom door open, she was earnestly surprised to hear a startled cry of alarm. She shrieked in surprise and jumped away when she caught sight of a tiny little Imperial fellow standing in the middle of their shop, and the Imperial answered with an equally loud cry and a trip to the floor.

After a moment to catch her breath, she regarded the intruder, then glanced up to see her unamused sister standing just where she had been working. They both stared down at the human boy—no older than seventeen—who had decided to grace them with their presence. Endarie's lips curled up in a sneer.

He was young, wiry, dirty, and scuffed, and had graciously tracked in mud and grass from gods only knew. His hat was ragged, a cap made of flax and stained with sweat and oil, his scruffy face smeared with dust and grime. The tunic he wore was ripped and worn, splattered in blood and dirt and all manner of food stains. If he had boots any longer, they were lost in the chunks of swamp he had decided to bring in with him.

Still, he looked harmless enough. The dagger at his side was blunt from wear and his arms were skinny and weak. Poor lad looked like he hadn't had the chance to eat in days and panted like he had been chased into Solitude by a dragon.

"We have a customer," Endarie sighed, and the contempt in her voice was not lost on their visitor. Despite her mounting repulsion, Taarie put on her best smile and offered a hand. She visibly flinched when he accepted her offer although, if he noticed, he was polite enough to ignore it.

"Welcome to Radiant Raiment," she stated as pleasantly as she could manage. "We can turn a pauper to a prince, or just make you a mite more respectable with the… common folks."

He completely ignored her pitch, instead arching his eyebrows and asking hopefully, "Are you Taarie of Alinor?"

She blinked. Endarie shook her head and returned to her work. Slowly, Taarie nodded, only slightly surprised when the boy reached into his knapsack and pulled out a neatly folded letter sealed with golden wax. Grinning with pride, he held it out to her like he was presenting a king with his crown.

"For you, ma'am! The man who sent it said you'd recognize the seal, said it was important."

Taarie nodded, plucking away the letter and examining it curiously. A feeling of dread began to well in her, condensing into a nauseating chill in her stomach. She recognized the seal, alright, but they wouldn't be contacting her so urgently unless something had gone awry.

"Endarie, it's from… _uncle_."

The sudden change of tone even made the courier's smile drop. He stepped out of the way to make room for Endarie, the Altmer throwing down her work and practically bolting for her sister. Taarie didn't even give her the opportunity to yank it out of her hands, holding it high above her head until Endarie settled down and quit cursing in her ear.

Only then did she pop the seal. Her breath caught in her throat as she unfolded the letter. They completely ignored the curious, confused courier who stood right in front of them, shifting his weight uneasily and waiting for a dismissal. He was forgotten the second they saw the handwriting.

_His_ handwriting. Even Endarie swallowed hard and fidgeted as her eyes pored over the words. It couldn't be good if Malborn was contacting them out of the blue. He had a set schedule, one that he had never broken, and he was far from stupid enough to hire a courier to carry his messages. His discretion and reliability were the whole reason they had trusted him.

Most of it was typical: Elenwen this, Elenwen that. Be careful. I hope you know what you are getting yourself into. I'm fine, hiding somewhere in Skyrim. The words were more frantic, though. She couldn't put her finger on how, but they were. She and Endarie shared a troubled look, then turned back to their reading.

In true twin fashion, they reached the same place at the same time. They gasped at the same time. Endarie bit into her finger and looked away as though she had just witnessed an execution. She wasn't far from the mark.

"Is everything alright?" the courier asked worriedly. Endarie wouldn't look at him and obviously didn't have it in her to toss a snarky rebuttal. Instead, she retreated to a corner and took a seat, tears welling in her eyes. Was it grief, or was it panic? Taarie wasn't sure.

Choking down her own anxiety, Taarie turned to the courier and nodded. Without hesitation, she swept past her sister, behind the counter, and knelt down to open a strongbox on a shelf close to the floor. She didn't even count the gold more than she pulled out a handful, trudging back to the nasty little deliveryman and forcing a rather large tip into his hand.

He was disgusting, but he seemed a good enough boy. Beyond that, she couldn't shake the feeling that some ill would befall him for even touching the letter. At least she could make his possibly final meal a good one.

"A-are you sure this is necessary?" he asked in shock, but his smile betrayed his excitement. Taarie forced herself to reciprocate it, though it was tainted with sadness.

"Positive," she assured him. "You look like you deserve the king's treasury for whatever you had to run through."

He thanked her profusely, pocketed his gold, then turned tail and excitedly bolted for the door. Taarie couldn't even claim to care that he tromped more dirt all over her floors. A broom could fix the floors, but nothing could fix…

"He's going to end up like Sanyon."

Endarie's voice broke the silence and Taarie whirled around, her eyes fixing on her suddenly meek, tiny sister. Her fire was replaced with fear and sorrow. Taarie's guts twisted themselves into a knot.

"They know!" she spat, perhaps a bit too loudly. "They know and now Ondolemar is going to end up like Sanyon!"

"Not if we get to him first," Taarie protested. Endarie shook her head and stood, tromping like an angry child into their room and slamming the door. Letting out a sigh, Taarie stepped back behind the counter, examining the black robe that her sister had been laboring over the entire morning.

Carefully, she lifted it and folded it as neatly as she could. Somewhere in their room, her knapsack was waiting, already packed due to a long-distance delivery she had never actually made. It was just a matter of getting _in_ there to get to it, and perhaps fighting off Endarie on her way out the door. Regardless of whose robe it really was, Taarie suspected she had a delivery to make in Markarth.


	3. The Ambassadors

Elenwen had trusted Sanyon once. He was always so understanding, so ambitious about furthering the goals of the Aldmeri Dominion. He leapt into his orders with the ferocity of a war dog and his bed at the Embassy had gone mostly unused since his deployment to Skyrim. Never once did he complain about working the field, walking proudly across the wilds of the frozen, barbaric wasteland and doing the work her weaker subordinates could not manage.

If it hadn't been for Tsavani graciously deciding to do a little housekeeping on the second floor, she likely never would have suspected a thing. But the khajiit had knocked into a bookshelf. A journal had fallen open. Her feline curiosity overcame her but she did not like what she found.

It was a cliché, melodramatic way to discover that there was a double agent in their midst, but convenient nonetheless. If not for Tsavani's kindhearted deed and subsequent snooping, Elenwen would have never guessed that The Beautiful had dared to pick a fight with the Aldmeri Dominion.

It was unthinkable to believe that a petty group of whiny youth would dare raise their voices against the most powerful entity in Tamriel. The Beautiful were nothing more than spurned, idealistic, misguided nobodies whose grandest achievements died within decades of their start in the Third Era. In all honesty, she had suspected they had simply killed themselves off out of sheer stupidity, all the while screaming about "modernizing" and "rejecting the ancient culture."

Progress, they seemed to believe, came at the price of sacrificing their natural superiority. Progress, they believed, was rebuilding from scratch and snubbing their proud roots. Progress, they believed, was anarchy. The poor bastards had been doomed from the get-go.

She sat in the Solar, listening as Rulindil spoke and nodding politely at his words, a smile tugging up at her lips with every mention of Sanyon's demise. Ever the clever one, he had originally suggested rooting out Sanyon by withdrawing all support from him, in hopes that the overzealous traitor would pick a fight he could not win. When that failed, he sabotaged the backstabber's little plans at ousting a Talos cult by having a smattering of disguised Thalmor soldiers butcher everyone in attendance for what was likely a lovely sermon. This included the ambitious Altmer hiding in the rocks for an ambush.

As they spoke, the bastard was rotting in the hills around Falkreath Hold.

"As it stands," Rulindil concluded, "there are no known accomplices. The journal lists no names that we recognize, beyond a couple of mentions of known Beautiful operatives in Summerset. It only hints at there being others in Skyrim, potentially trying to sabotage our efforts regarding the civil war."

"Do we have any suspects?" she asked calmly, thumbing idly through a ledger on her desk. Rulindil smirked.

"We have detained Kemmeron, for obvious reasons. Being Sanyon's brother, we guessed he would have some insight. He hasn't talked yet but he will soon."

"Beyond family?"

"We have eye-witness sightings from devoted folk who have come forward with their concerns. It would seem that—while stationed in Falkreath—Sanyon would often make trips to Markarth. Some have suggested it was for supplies considering how backwoods Falkreath is, but…"

"Riverwood was much closer," Elenwen finished. "And Whiterun is much better supplied."

"It's likely," he defended, "that he went someplace friendlier to the Dominion out of convenience. However, if we are truly dealing with the Beautiful…"

"We shouldn't take chances."

Her voice was almost mocking. In truth, she doubted that some tiny group could cause too much of a stir. The most they had ever managed to do was knock over a few statues and kill a defenseless princess. They may have felt powerful but, when faced with an entire army, she was fairly certain that they would change their tune.

They were weak. The Dominion was strong. It was as simple as that.

"We were thinking of bringing in Ondolemar for questioning," he continued. "We suspect one of his guards may have been trying to use Sanyon and his organization as an equalizer. It would appear there is growing dissent amongst the soldiers in regards to their treatment in comparison to the battlemages."

"And Ondolemar himself?"

"I have no reason to think that Ondolemar would be capable of..."

"Remember my last banquet?"

His mouth snapped shut and he stared at the ground and sighed. Given how close Rulindil and Ondolemar had been in the past, she knew that his reservations were purely personal. Still, none could forget the grand disaster during her most recent soiree in which their security had been breached. Blaming his poor judgment on too much brandy, the bloody Justiciar Captain had created quite the disruption, perfectly timed to allow a sell-sword hired by the Blades to kill her men, free her prisoners, and steal her documentation.

Rulindil had been found, impaled and dying, saved only by good fortune. Ondolemar had seemed remorseful about the turnout, spent his time in the Thalmor prisons, and had given up a chunk of his wages to pay for those Rulindil had lost while recovering. A kind gesture, perhaps made out of goodwill, but given Ondolemar's temperament and recent developments, Elenwen felt in her gut that it may have been an attempt at covering himself.

"Perhaps," he conceded, "he is impulsive."

"Perhaps he doesn't have our best interests at heart."

"He is more devoted to our cause than I, m'lady Ambassador."

"He's devoted more to himself than anyone."

The shock of hearing Elenwen speak ill of Ondolemar seemed to shake the poor mer. She felt only a pang of remorse. After all, her instincts were typically right and Rulindil was a sitting duck, choosing to ignore obvious leads. If bluntness is what kept him safe, regardless of how badly he took it, it would be worth it in the end.

"We will hold off in Markarth until Kemmeron provides us details or until four days pass. Should he not cave within that time, I am deploying a group of inquisitors to conduct an investigation. Ondolemar and his guards will be brought in. Do I make myself clear?"

"As clear as the Crystal Tower," he begrudgingly answered.

With that, she waved him away. He walked with a sort of determination she had not seen in quite some time, obviously ready to do whatever was necessary to keep his subordinates out of Markarth. She smiled weakly as she watched him go. Kemmeron would be lucky if he lasted the night.


	4. Kemmeron

When they were young, Sanyon had been one hell of a storyteller. Kemmeron and the other children of their slum in Lillandril would listen, wide-eyed, as the older boy would weave tales of adventure and heroics and treasure. He'd whisper about monsters and haunts from around the world, from the Pale Lady of Skyrim to the possessed ash beasts of Morrowind. He'd excitedly play the parts of kings and queens and dragon slayers and vampire lords with all the enthusiasm of a professional actor, treating his back-alley performances like productions put on by the troupes of Shimmerene.

With creativity and drive like that, it wasn't a surprise that he eventually found his way to one of the artist salons in Alinor. He scraped and saved and struggled until he cut his niche in a prestigious circle, pursuing a predictable path as a writer. He penned essays of historic heroes, wrote novels and poetry about the deeds of the gods, and was the author of many plays that eventually _were_ performed by the troupes of Shimmerene.

But something changed whenever he came home. His books were the same as his old tales of high adventure, but the stories he told were grim and dark. He spoke of purges in Valenwood, merkind being laid to waste for stupid reasons. The parts he played were now of poor Altmer, being dragged into prisons and never seen again. Thrill and excitement were replaced by sorrow and rage, and with every word Sanyon spoke, it seemed to intensify.

He spoke quietly of his friends at the salon, in hushed whispers of those he dubbed The Beautiful. A smile would pull at the corner of his lips with every mention of them, however. How they wished to help Summerset join the modern age by letting go of their past. Yes, the Altmer had done much in their long history on Nirn, but what good would come of dwelling on it?

The Altmeri culture had effectively stopped in time. They looked back at what they had done, smiled to themselves, and then fought tooth-and-nail to never progress past it. Was it out of fear of change? Fear of faring worse if they dared step out of the guidelines laid before them? Or was it ego?

Whatever the case, Sanyon had been adamant that it was causing the Isles to stagnate. Nobody did anything new. There was no great glory. To make matters worse, the Thalmor were effectively trying to reverse time to devastating results.

"The Aldmeri Dominion," he once said in the quietness of Kemmeron's dilapidated home, "is a prime example of why we have to turn loose of everything we knew about ourselves. They cling to past hatred, past accomplishments, past glory. They're trying to undo everything that brought us prosperity and progress to skip back to lost generations, and it's contagious. Valenwood and Elsweyr already know our pain."

The more he thought about it, the more it made sense. In due time, Kemmeron came to know The Beautiful. He came to understand their cause. He came to realize that they weren't just _terrorists_, like the Dominion touted, but mer driven to desperation out of fear for their own people. They were the ones not blinded by the Thalmor's lies, the ones who realized that things had actually worsened due to their archaic points of view.

Even in the robes of a justiciar, walking amongst the Thalmor as they marched across every province from Cyrodiil to Skyrim, he had felt immense pity for them. They were blind as bats and walking straight to their doom. Worst of all, he couldn't tell them, not even the men and women he had come to love as comrades.

He just watched and waited. There was too much danger in saying anything. They wouldn't understand. If they did, Sanyon would still be alive.

"Agent Kemmeron of Lillandril, you are hereby charged with treason against the Aldmeri Dominion and its supporters."

Rulindil's voice may as well have come from the mouth of Molag Bal. It shook Kemmeron to his core and, when he lifted his face, he found that those dark eyes of the inquisitor suddenly looked blacker than the depths of Oblivion. Shackled to the cell wall, there was little he could do to resist as the bearded man in black stepped forward and grabbed his head, yanking his chin up so sharply that his neck cracked. He was glad his head was shaved, otherwise Rulindil might have yanked him by the hair hard enough to scalp him.

He couldn't muster a look of rage, which he supposed Rulindil was expecting. There were no defiant spitting, threats, or cursing. More surprisingly, there was no look of fear, even as a soldier in glistening armor turned the corner with a flanged mace in his hands.

Kemmeron considered him apathetically, then shifted his gaze back to Rulindil. As best he could, he tilted his head to the side and let out an exasperated sigh.

"What did I do _this_ time, Rulindil?"

A sharp pain shot through his temple as the inquisitor's fist collided with the side of his head with enough force to knock his hood off. He didn't cry out more than he hissed like a steam centurion, jaw clenching and muscles tightening involuntarily. Sanyon would have chided him for daring to mock a man who made his living torturing others, but Sanyon was busy decomposing somewhere beside Lake Ilinalta.

"You dare make light of your charges?" Rulindil snarled. "Caerdil, if you would."

The soldier stepped into the cell just as Rulindil stepped out. Holding his mace like a bat, he reared back and slammed it into Kemmeron's gut. Something cracked and blood exploded out of his mouth, red dribbling through his stubble as tears welled in his eyes. Still, he couldn't say he felt fear.

It was as though he had turned everything off. He felt nothing.

"You are aware of the fact your brother is dead, are you not?" Rulindil asked, taking a seat at a table beside his cell. Through the bars, he could see that he was pouring himself a glass of wine. He looked like a bored noble watching a drab play, and sounded much the same.

"I am," Kemmeron croaked.

"Do you know why?"

"I was told he was killed by Talos worshipers near Riverwood."

It wasn't the whole truth and, judging from the look on Rulindil's face, he knew it. With a flick of his wrist to his armored associate, he silently ordered another blow. This one was lighter yet hurt _worse_ than the one before. A gust of air shot out of Kemmeron in a high-pitched whine of agony.

"And who told you that?"

"The mer who arrested me."

"What else did he tell you?"

"That I was under arrest."

The mace was raised again, but dismissed by a firm shake of Rulindil's head. The inquisitor took a sip of wine and opened a book sitting on his table, thumbing through the pages as though looking for something in particular. The pages were yellowed and Kemmeron could smell the mountain flower ink. It was bound in red leather and singed on one side.

It was a journal. More importantly, it was Sanyon's journal. Kemmeron's heart sank into his stomach.

"I have made the appropriate reports to Saririil and Estalenya in Shimmerene," he began to recite, "concerning the affairs of the Dominion in the Skyrim civil war. The return of the dragons has hindered them and I can only hope the blasted lizards hold their attention long enough for me to assemble my brothers."

With that, he closed the book and tossed it on the table. Kemmeron knew he was reveling in the look of abject horror on his face. His smug grin was enough to elicit a pang of hatred deep within him although, out of necessity, the numbness consumed it once more.

"His brothers, hmm?" Rulindil pondered. "I know he has _one_ brother, and I know said brother is now staring at me like he has something he wishes to say."

Kemmeron was silent. His tormentor felt it necessary to club him in the ribs to encourage him. Rulindil snorted a laugh.

"If you don't know where to start, allow me to ask questions to help you along. Tell me, Kemmeron, _who_ are Saririil and Estalenya?"

Sanyon's superiors within The Beautiful, of course. Saririil was a painter from Firsthold, the son of a former Beautiful "general" who had deemed himself a ruling figure after his mother's death. He had engineered a handful of attacks on the Crystal Tower and was damn determined to bring it down before he died. Estalenya was a performance artist and acrobat from Dusk who had orchestrated several raids of museums across Summerset. Given her mastery of stealth, she had taken out more than a couple of influential figures in Shimmerene.

Of course, these were things Kemmeron couldn't admit to knowing. Heaving and wheezing with a mouth dripping with gore, he shook his head weakly. The mace was drawn back and, suddenly, his leg was broken.

"Who are his brothers?" Rulindil continued.

"I am?" he answered feebly. The mace wasn't even necessary this time. All the soldier needed to do was budge his injured leg and a surge of pain shot through his body. Kemmeron let out a bloodcurdling scream and nearly choked on his own blood, hacking and gagging and finally throwing up on the floor of his cell.

"I will ask you again, Kemmeron. Who are…?"

Something in Kemmeron snapped, and with newfound strength he furiously howled, "For the love of Julianos, _I do not know_! I don't recognize Cedril and Narylcarya, or whoever you said they were! The only brother I know Sanyon had was _me_! Born of the same blood, same parentage, grew up in the same house! _Literal brothers_!"

Another blast of agony let him know that Rulindil wasn't pleased with his response. The inquisitor was now in front of him, seemingly by magic, with sparks dancing across his fingers and a look of absolute hatred plastered on his face. Even the soldier seemed more than a little disturbed and had backed out of the cell without a word, his eyes fixed on the corner of the room instead of the twitching, bloody, singed mess of a mer shackled to the wall.

"What if I told you he wrote of you in this book? What if I said that I _know_ you're with The Beautiful and you are only digging your grave deeper?"

"I'd call you a liar," Kemmeron growled. The rage in Rulindil's expression was replaced with contempt and, as suddenly as he entered the cage, he was gone. His mace discarded and replaced with a handful of pins, the torturer dragged his feet back into the cell.

"Caerdil, let's continue. I will start the questions again."

Kemmeron swallowed hard. Wherever Sanyon was, he hoped the bastard was proud of his little brother.


	5. A More Direct Approach

He knew what he was getting into from the first day his orders were handed to him. Even if Skyrim had the least defended embassy belonging to the Aldmeri Dominion, they were still dealing with Thalmor. Angry, frustrated Thalmor who were finding it damn near impossible to stamp out heresy amongst the locals, stuck corralling the humans like cattle even as they tried to manipulate the outcome of the civil war. Although they were usually too distracted to notice minor things and people being missing, with tempers flaring Ondolemar knew better than to believe that they would have all escaped the mission alive.

Still, he always assumed he would be the first to go. He was brash and loud and confrontational, not too good at keeping his mouth shut, and the ambassadors were beginning to realize he had molded himself into a walking parody. Sitting on a stone chair with Malborn's message in his hands, he couldn't quite wrap his mind around what he was reading. Sanyon was their leader, his good friend, the fellow he had trained with, and possibly the most cautious and level-headed of the Beautiful dispatched to Skyrim.

Now, Sanyon was gone. His brother was in Elenwen's custody. In a single letter, everything began to crumble.

"I take it Endarie isn't taking this well?" Ondolemar asked, glancing up from the paper. Taarie didn't immediately answer. She leaned against the wall with her arms crossed over her chest, her hair frizzy from humidity and her clothes just beginning to dry from her rainy carriage ride. The poor girl looked like she had been beaten up by life itself, but he knew better than assume she was so weak as to break over a few mud stains. Prissy as she was, he had watched her tear down monuments with her bare hands and a bit of magic.

"Does any woman take it well when they learn their lover has died?" she responded. "No, Endarie isn't taking it well."

"Do you think we should send word to Estalenya? If she is not at her best, she could impair us all. We may have to send her back to Alin—"

"She'll be fine," Taarie cut off sharply. "She's the best scout we have. We can't afford to send her back right now."

Ondolemar nodded though he wasn't thoroughly convinced, but there were more important things to worry about than arguing about it. The mer who was effectively their leader was dead, and a comrade was in custody. Said comrade knew the names of every Beautiful agent that followed the Thalmor north and, despite Kemmeron being a resilient little snot, the Dominion were experts at getting what they wanted or _killing_ those who proved useless. Either the entire group would be compromised or one of the few operatives at their disposal would meet his gruesome end in some rancid prison.

To make matters worse, he himself had been warned long ago to watch his own back. A misstep at the embassy had landed him in a dungeon and earned him the ire of Elenwen, and though she was polite and quiet about it, he knew her well enough to know she was waiting for any excuse to whisk him off to Northwatch. It made it dangerous to be in Markarth to begin with, the most powerful Thalmor in the province being less than a day's ride away. Elenwen's apparent grudge combined with his close proximity meant that, at the slightest hint of his involvement, he would be the first one they went after. If it came to that, he didn't like his odds of survival. He probably wouldn't even make it to the interrogation chambers.

"Hell, at this rate we can't afford much of anything. I can't even afford to stay here any longer."

"If you leave, you'll blow your cover."

"And if Kemmeron breaks, I won't even have time to run."

Taarie cringed at the words but didn't protest, even if she desperately wished to. She knew as well as anyone that they were in a delicate position. Though she shifted her weight uncomfortably, she nodded in resignation and allowed Ondolemar to continue.

"I likely should have fled weeks ago," he chuckled, tucking the letter into his robe. "My last correspondence with Malborn had him practically begging me to go into hiding with him but at the time I felt abandoning my post would have been a waste. Considering where I am, I have access to prime material."

Taarie nodded again, snorting, "Where is that Bosmer anyway? I thought he fled to Morrowind."

"So he said, but he hasn't left Windhelm."

Her eyebrow quirked, and he understood her confusion perfectly. Windhelm wasn't very keen on mer or betmer, with Ulfric being the reigning jarl over that ancient heap of stones. Being incapable of realizing superiority when he saw it, he made a habit of sticking up his nose at anyone whose ears were longer than his. However, Windhelm was one of the few places where one could be safe from the Thalmor for the most part. Save for a close call with a khajiiti assassin, Malborn had mostly been forgotten by the Dominion.

Although, "forgotten" wasn't entirely accurate. Rather, people who fled to Windhelm were ignored out of convenience. The Thalmor didn't want to risk provoking or harming their precious, dormant asset: the jarl. In order to keep the war at a comfortable stalemate that kept both Empire and rebel busy and out of the way, they had to give Ulfric the illusion of power. They had to make him _think_ that they were too afraid to break down his walls, even if it meant letting a troublemaker fall through the cracks.

"So, will _you _go to Windhelm?" Taarie asked. Ondolemar snorted a humorless laugh and shook his head. Ulfric would never allow it. It wasn't as though he'd have the same anonymity as Malborn. He recognized him as the mer who led the charge into reclaiming Markarth for the Empire.

Besides, what of The Beautiful? He absolutely couldn't afford the same passiveness as Malborn, either. He had to be in the field. He had to be doing _something_. He couldn't just sit on his ass and wait, although—the more he thought about it—the more he realized that that was exactly what he _had_ been doing since he miffed the lady Ambassador. He hadn't been permitted to leave Markarth in what seemed like an eternity.

"With Sanyon gone, I'm the ranking agent in this province," he finally answered, climbing up from his chair. "I don't have the luxury of staying cooped up for a lifetime while I wait for all of this to blow over."

"You're effectively saying that you can't stay and you can't hide. I don't know what other option that leaves you."

He smirked and Taarie recognized the vicious gleam in his eyes. Her brows furrowed and she mouthed the word "no" at him, although he could tell she was curious and perhaps a bit excited. For as well as she played the part of helpless shopkeeper, for as much as she loved putting her artistic skills to use, he _knew_ she couldn't deny loving the exhilaration that came from danger and conflict. It had been far too long since she had seen any use outside of passing along messages and sewing.

"Kemmeron is either in the embassy or Northwatch. Pick one," he firmly ordered. Taarie shook her head and glowered at him.

"Kemmeron is probably _dead_."

"Then we give him a proper burial. Northwatch or the embassy?"

As he spoke, he walked to the door and slammed his fist hard against the metal. When his knock was answered with two, a smile crept across his face. Reaching into an interior pocket, he fished out a small phial of paralysis poison and shook the contents vigorously before freeing a dagger from his belt.

"I know what you're thinking and it's suicide," Taarie protested. "What would Saririil say if he knew his cousin was proposing a bloody _direct attack_ on the Thalmor? Without any input from the people in his charge!"

"Good job?" he guessed with a shrug, dousing a rag with the potion and wiping it on his blade. "You forget, _this_ is the way of The Beautiful. We take the fight to our enemies. We're not meant to be sneaking around like cowards or hiding at the first sight of danger. They know we're here. We drop them like flies."

"We'll get mauled."

"There's maybe four of us."

"And two hundred of them."

"Don't underestimate me, Taarie. I alone easily count for as many mer."

Before Taarie could intervene, he rapped on the door three times. A signal of something gone awry, as his guards had come to learn. It wasn't long before the door creaked open, pinning Ondolemar behind it as he scooted against the wall. Taarie yelped as two armored men bolted into the room with their swords drawn, and her heart leaped into her throat when the tip of their blades found themselves aimed at her.

It never dawned on them that their superior was nowhere in sight, not until the door clicked closed and the one closest to it was yanked back violently by the collar of his cuirass. He didn't even have time to scream before a blade was against his bare throat, every muscle stiffening as Ondolemar drew it cleanly from one ear to the other. The poison did its work, paralyzing his face into an almost-scream of alarm.

He wasn't as quick at nabbing the second one, who slung his sword in Ondolemar's direction with a grunt. The edge caught him on the throat but thankfully left nothing more than a red line, which couldn't be said for the second swing. It carved into his cheek just enough to draw blood, Ondolemar stumbling back and dodging to the side with a curse.

Dagger in hand, Ondolemar lunged but stopped dead in his tracks when his opponent was forced out of the way. Taarie, her own knife drawn, threw her entire body into the second guard, shoving him into the wall with enough force to knock the wind clear out of him. It came out in a great gale and he keeled over with a cough, although it ended when a dainty hand cupped itself around his mouth.

It was a simple, clean blow. She buried her dagger in his throat down to the hilt, holding onto him tightly even as he bit into her palm. He struggled and thrashed as he died but, with surprising strength, she managed to hold him in place. She only let go when he went completely limp, allowing him to crumple lifelessly to the floor.

Then, in typical Taarie fashion, she examined her clothes. Her hands were bloody but her outfit was pristine, a fact that made her sigh loudly in relief. Even Ondolemar couldn't say he wasn't impressed. Pulling a spare black robe from her knapsack, she wiped off her hands.

"Since we've now hit a point of no return," she grumbled, "I suppose _we_ can take the Embassy. We are not splitting up because I'm not leaving one mer to take on the emissaries, and I will be _damned_ if I fight a whole fort of Thalmor alone."

"Fair enough," he answered, sheathing his knife. "Now I suppose this is where we part ways until then?"

"And I leave you ankle-deep in a pile of dead Thalmor?"

"I've dealt with worse," he confessed. Much to his relief, Taarie huffed a laugh. She hooked her arms under those of one of the corpses and began to drag it to a less-visible corner. He wordlessly followed with the second, piling the mer's carcass on top of his coworker in a position that would have perhaps been incriminating if they weren't stewing in blood.

Ondolemar looked at the dark red splatters streaked across the ground and sighed. Yanking Taarie's spare robe from where she heaped it on the table, he fell to his knees and began to scrub. If nothing else, he could ensure that—if one were to just glance in the doorway—nobody would realize anything was amiss. Not getting immediately caught would be well worth the shame of menial labor.

"So what are we to do, Ondolemar?" she asked as he cleaned. He paused, glanced up from behind the hood of his robe, and raised his brows. After a brief silence, he continued his work.

"You will leave this room as though nothing happened. You will pay the driver at the stables for a ride back to Solitude. You will wait, preferably at the bridge above the East Empire warehouse, until tomorrow morning. I'd say to be there as soon as the sun comes up, and if I'm not there by noon? You run."

"And you?"

"I'll leave tonight when the jarl retires."

"And then?"

Ondolemar cracked a smile as he sopped up the last of the blood and pitched his cleaning rag over the face of one of his victims. Gracefully rising to his feet, he whirled around and traced a finger under Taarie's jaw playfully, laughing as she pulled away with what he thought was a growl. She was obviously far less enthusiastic than he was about the idea of picking a fight.

"We go to the Embassy, we retrieve Kemmeron, and we take a far more hands-on approach to dealing with Elenwen and her lackeys than Sanyon allowed us. If we're already compromised and they're already hunting us, what's the harm of causing a little chaos before we meet our end?"

"You have a lot of confidence in our capabilities."

He couldn't help but chuckle.

"Given our reputation, we'll probably fare _better_ now that it's come to blows."


	6. Frisi

The world was nothing but a dull roar. It was like some kind of chaotic symphony, conducted by his pulse, wherein every sound meshed together into that of magical static and crashing waves. His head throbbed with the beat and so did his once-shattered leg and formerly mangled ribs. Gods, they had given him a potion to keep him alive and somehow that made his previously broken bones hurt _worse_.

"Hey. Elf."

Though his eyes were nearly swollen shut, he tried to figure out who was speaking, but his head was too weak to lift. He sputtered a cough, red splattering the fresh hay at his feet. He gagged, threatened to vomit, and wished that he would. Maybe he would choke on it. Maybe they wouldn't notice.

It took him a couple of moments to realize that the voice was coming from the cell next to him. It was weak and cracking, completely broken, and the first female he had heard since being thrown in a cage. Not even Elenwen had graced him with her presence, although he was more than a little relieved for that. If Rulindil had the ferocity of a dremora lord, she was Mehrunes Dagon given flesh.

"Elf."

The voice was a little more forceful now, but not hostile. Judging from the accent, they were Nord. Judging from the sound, they were young. If he had to guess, he'd put the age at twenty or thirty, although he admittedly had difficulty with human ages. What was young to them was infantile to him, and what was old was just breaching "adult" by Altmer standards.

"Are you awake, elf?"

He hated being addressed as such. The Nords never had any good intentions behind their use of the word "elf," and he couldn't help but feel that he was being talked down to. The only thing that quelled his irritation was the fact that his brain kept skipping around, making it nearly impossible to focus on anything but agony and exhaustion. He tried to move again, to look at the neighboring cell, but something cracked ominously and he was forced to admit he was essentially paralyzed.

"Kemmeron," he wheezed. He tried to snarl, to assert his authority, but it came out like somebody had punctured his lung. Perhaps they had, although they must have healed it. Otherwise, he'd be dead.

"Frisi."

He laughed.

Frisi? What kind of name was Frisi? The Nords seemed to label their children based on whatever sound they made squeezing them out, piecing together nonsensical sounds into gibberish that had no meaning. Jebs that sounded like yahkems. Consonants bunched up against consonants that had no reason to mingle with them. If nothing else, at least "Frisi" was relatively easy to say, unlike some of the barbarians he had happened across.

He said nothing, though. He wasn't in any condition to pick a fight and any voice that wasn't Rulindil's was a welcome one, human or not. She seemed equally relieved and he could almost hear the smile in her voice when she spoke.

"What are you in for?"

As weak as she seemed, Frisi tried to keep at least some of her buoyancy. Perhaps she was just as thrilled as he was to hear a voice that didn't belong to an inquisitor. Maybe she had been sitting in silence for so long that it had become maddening. Whatever the case, there some girlish charm left in her and even the faintest bit of hope. What a shame that it would eventually get beaten out of her.

"Treason," he answered before he could stop himself. He probably shouldn't have said that. He couldn't tell if there was a guard in the room, but any hint of understanding the charges could have led to another round of beatings. They seemed pretty desperate to get him to talk and adamant that he knew something. Anything could trigger them to drag him to the rack for one more round of questioning.

Nothing happened, though, and after a tense pause, Frisi quizzically asked, "Treason?"

She obviously wanted an explanation. Unfortunately for her, he knew how the Thalmor worked, how they turned prisoners against one another with promises of amnesty. For all he knew, they could have offered her freedom in exchange for information while he was blacked out, maybe thinking he'd trust some stranger over a mer with a mace. Maybe she was just a plant to begin with.

If she wanted juicy details, she wouldn't get them, but perhaps the situation could be warped in his favor. If he was as consistent with her as he was with Rulindil, if she _was_ an informant, perhaps they'd take his claims of innocence a bit more seriously. It was doubtful—they knew he knew how they operated and they would sooner kill him than release him—but it was worth a shot.

"My brother did something," he croaked, surprised at how difficult it was to speak. "Some terrorist group. I don't know. They tried to explain it to me. Left out details thinking I knew something. I'm lost."

"You're under arrest for something your brother did?"

He tried to nod, but failing that, simply choked out the word, "Yes."

"That makes two of us."

The shock of the words seemed to invigorate him just enough to gently crane his head in her direction. In his peripheral vision, he could barely make out a woman strapped against the cold stone wall. She was tanned, possibly from work in the field, with dark hair that shot off in every direction. She had been stripped to nothing, exposed fully to the cold and covered in smears of red, black, and blue. Beyond that, the details were lost. It was too much strain to focus his eyes.

"My brother is a Talos worshiper," she laughed humorlessly, squirming in her restraints. "He dropped everything one day and seemed to vanish into thin air. Didn't even leave a note to explain himself, but he kept threatening that he was going to leave and join the Stormcloaks."

She coughed and her body heaved violently. The tell-tale sound of wet splatter told him all he needed to know. Obviously, Frisi had met the business end of Caerdil's mace as well.

"Then the Thalmor came. Kicked down the door. They found his amulet in a box under his bed, and I was the first person they grabbed."

"They want to know where he is?" Kemmeron struggled to ask. Frisi sighed.

"That, and they want to reeducate me."

"Do you worship Talos?"

"I'm not one for gods, actually."

He hesitated, then chuckled. What an odd answer coming from a Nord. They were usually so devoted to that sort of thing. Was she just too simple to understand religion? Was she one of those farm cases where they were just too backwoods to care? Maybe she was one of those weird, animal worshiping types. He had heard such backwards people existed, although he thought their ilk was confined to Solstheim.

"You wear the robes, elf," she stated after a long pause. "Thalmor?"

"Was."

"Why?"

"I have my reasons."

She didn't press it, thankfully, although he half expected her to pick a fight. Perhaps she understood that, regardless of where he started, they were brothers in binds now. He was no more favored than any other prisoner that ever graced that damnable cell. He took a deep breath that caught in his throat and sighed heavily. If anything, they were being harder on him _because_ he was once a member of their little order.

"When I get out of here," Frisi choked, "I swear I may just pack up my daughter and leave Skyrim entirely. It's probably safer in Hammerfell."

His heart hurt at the sound of her words, like an arrow shot straight through his ribs. He didn't have it in him to say that she would likely never get out, that they would both die miserably at the hands of the inquisitor because neither of them could ever tell Rulindil what he wanted to hear. He couldn't force himself to tell her to make peace with the gods she didn't believe in because she was about to meet them in Sovngarde or Snowguard or wherever the hell Nords thought they went when they were killed.

Instead, he just rattled out a single word: "Probably."

"My, my. Our guests are chatty today."

The sound of Rulindil's voice put a stop to their conversation. His blood ran cold and his heart began to crawl up his throat, beating frantically against the inside of his ribcage. He could hear Frisi, weak but defiant, thrash against her cuffs in a vain attempt to yank herself free. Soon, all was silent save for the sound of a pair of boots thudding slowly across the wooden floor.

"Good. _Very_ good. Maybe today we'll actually make some progress."

Something hard collided with his jaw and he let out a squall of agony. Rulindil's laughter was lost in Frisi's frantic screams.


	7. Superiorly Acquired Bounties

Perhaps he should have been more careful, waited only a few moments longer so that the men patrolling the stony halls would disperse. They were set to change shifts, which perhaps would have given him enough time to slip out undetected, but he had grown impatient. His nerves gnawed at him, and after a few close calls keeping the housecarl out of the war room, he had decided to cut his losses.

Security was sparse anyway, and nobody would think anything of him just heading out of the Keep for some fresh air. It wasn't as though he never did before since it was no secret he had a bit of a smoking habit; they had sorted through enough of his shipments of hackle-lo and tobacco from Morrowind to know. All he had to do was be quick about it, and hopefully—Julianos willing—Igmund's lackeys wouldn't realize until he was halfway to Solitude.

It was a stupid assumption. If Ondolemar should have learned anything in his life, it was that _nothing_ was ever that easy for him.

No sooner had he made it to the bottom of the steps leading to the Mournful Throne did he hear a loud, angry voice call out in alarm. One of the Jarl's guards, having forgotten something in the war room earlier in the day, had stumbled across his lovely heap of dead mer. Despite a mounting sense of panic and an uncomfortable surge of adrenaline, Ondolemar couldn't help but smile when he heard a veritable stampede of guards tearing from every corner of Understone Keep.

It was like a flood of fur and chainmail, every guard rushing at him with hate in their eyes and, presumably, a smile on their faces. Finally, they had an excuse to lay their hands on the untouchable justiciar that had been haunting them for months, and they reveled in their fantasies of the bloody mess they'd turn him into. He snorted a laugh as an axe swung at him, sliding away as gracefully as a dancer and narrowly missing the fingers of a second human reaching for his throat.

His back bumped into their shield and, in one fluent motion, he unlatched his mace from his belt and swung around with as much momentum as he could gather. The golden weapon slammed hard into the side of the guard's head, putting a sizable dent in his helmet and throwing him off to the side. Another swing and he cracked another's ribs as they hoisted a warhammer above their head.

Only when a blade sliced open his shoulder did he decide taking on a mob wasn't worth the trouble. The mace still gripped in his hands, Ondolemar ducked under the shields and weapons of his assailants and slipped away, his footsteps echoing throughout the Keep as he bolted for the streets. Calcelmo's museum guards waited at the end of the corridor for him, poised and ready to strike as a confused Thonar Silverblood clumsily stumbled out of the way of the charging mer. Desperate, Ondolemar bolted for the wall and jumped against it, launching himself off of the brickwork and sailing over their heads in an explosion of violet sparks.

They watched in amazement as he landed, albeit awkwardly, beside the exit. Whipping around and fixing his hood, he offered them a smirk and a haughty bow. The "lost" Alteration spells of the Third Era were quite impressive, especially the so-called "jumping spells" the Dunmer once loved so much. Unfortunately, despite having practiced them in secret for over a year, he still hadn't quite mastered the landing.

Regardless, the Nords seemed stunned. For a moment, their weapons were lowered and they just gawked, wide-eyed, at the Altmer. Their complete awe was the only thing that saved his ego as he threw himself back into the door and into the darkness of Markarth.

Unfortunately, it seemed the Keep's walls weren't soundproof, and the doormen just outside were waiting with axes and swords. No sooner did he hit the street did fingers wrap around his arm, yanking him violently to the side. A gruff voice began to remind him of his rights, as though he even had any within Markarth, but never finished before his jaw was dislocated by a powerful blow of Ondolemar's mace. The guard screamed so loud that the birds sleeping atop the temple of Dibella exploded into the air in a flurry of feathers and beating wings, surging towards the sky like some sort of great, roaring phantom.

The words "catch him" and "murderer" echoed through the streets as the Keep guards rushed out to join the pursuit yet again. Seeing the mass of men closing in on him, Ondolemar wrenched himself away from the injured Nord and launched himself from the top of the stairs, hitting the landing on three limbs and losing his mace in one of the many streams that rushed through Markarth's streets. Like some manner of animal, he used his arms to propel himself forward for the first few steps, rushing headlong before he felt his sense of balance return.

A Vigilant of Stendarr in front of an abandoned house squeaked a curse in a high pitch that didn't match his massive build. One of the Silverblood's henchmen laughed loudly and drunkenly cheered Ondolemar on as he swung around the corner and slammed into a gate guard. The gate guard himself called out for a thousand different gods, some of which existed, under the false belief that he was being attacked by a Forsworn.

Ondolemar shut him up with a firm punch to the throat and the man collapsed with a cough as he cradled his neck in his hands.

"Gods, you fight like a reaver," a familiar voice muttered incredulously behind him. Ondolemar turned, his entire body trembling with a mixture of anticipation and excitement. He hadn't expected to see Ogmund lingering there in the dim lantern light at the front of the Silverblood Inn, but there the skald stood, ever vigilant, apparently committed to Ondolemar's task. The Altmer flashed a nearly manic grin.

"I didn't become the captain of the justiciars for my ability to do paperwork, _human_."

Ondolemar turned to the gates out of Markarth, but no sooner did his hand start to press them open did he hear Ogmund yet again. Glancing over his shoulder, he could see the gray-haired bard was practically looming over him, confused and disgusted and perhaps a touch intrigued. Why wouldn't he be? He was a warrior-poet, after all, whose entire life had been devoted to oddball stories of violence and adventure. What could have possibly been odder than a Thalmor being chased through the streets by every guard in Markarth?

"What in the nine hells did you do, elf?"

"Killed a couple of Thalmor. Getting ready to kill a lot more. Go ahead and write that into your precious little Edda."

The sound of the footfall of two dozen guards closing in was his signal. Leaving a bewildered Ogmund in his wake, he threw open the gates and broke out into the chilly Reach night. A brilliant aurora lit up the sky as though to celebrate his bloody accomplishment and the torchlight of patrolling watchmen maneuvered down the cobblestone street like a parade of will-o-wisps. Thankfully, the thick stone walls of Markarth had muted the sound of the guards' screams; not a damn one of them seemed to notice anything was amiss. Yet.

He barreled down the steps, snarling as he bolted for the stables. A shaggy beast that the locals maintained was a "wolfhound" rose up from its bed in a pile of hay within one of the stalls, its amber eyes lighting up with sudden alertness. Its barks pierced the night, drowning out the peaceful chirping of frogs and crickets. It lunged at him as he grabbed the reigns of the nearest horse, a skewbald stallion that he hoped was as agile as it was beautiful.

Glancing back, he saw the confused and furious skald being tailed by a mob of angry armored men. His eyes narrowed and, turning toward the yapping dog at his feet, he sent forth a projectile that rendered it unharmed but immobile and, most importantly, silent. Magic still hissing in the air, he leapt onto the horse and yanked the reigns.

It charged out of its stall and toward the oncoming horde, stopping just short of barreling into them. With a horrible scream, it reared up on its hind legs and kicked, the noise loud enough to finally get the attention of the stable hands. A scruffy pair of men in night clothes ran outside with a curse, raising a lantern that illuminated Ondolemar in a fiery orange glow. He knew from the looks on his audience's faces that he must have looked like a daedra bursting free from the Deadlands.

Taking advantage of their awe, Ondolemar's hands lit up with mage fire as his steed crashed back down to all fours. The sound of its thundering hooves echoed through the foothills as it stomped in agitation, and the shrill cries that escaped its mouth seemed unfitting for a creature of such beauty. Flames weaved around the Altmer's fingers and spiraled up his arm, the intensity of the heat causing sweat to bead at his brow. Sneering, he threw forth his hands and gouts of fire sprayed from his palms, spreading across the ground between himself and his pursuers.

"By the gods!"

The horse shrieked and instinctively pulled away as a wall of flames flared to life in front of its eyes. Ondolemar barely had time to grab its reigns as it reared back one more time, shrieking like a banshee. He yanked the leather straps as hard as he could to the side, turning its head and its body toward the cobblestone street leading out of Markarth. It took off in a dead run, hardly listening to his commands in its panic although he supposed that, short throwing itself off of a cliff, anyplace the beast could end up would be better than where he began.

Only a few watchmen pursued him, although they stopped short when his horse launched the both of them down from a wall, landing without grace next to the river that flowed out of the city's grates. It let out a low whinny of pain but continued forward, finally responding to a forceful yank of its reigns as he drove it northward, disappearing into the shadows and leaving the dull roar of flames and angry cursing behind him. Hopefully, the animal was fast enough to make it to Solitude before dawn.


	8. The Plan

The air smelled of dry hay and mountain flowers and a pleasant breeze swept across the hillside. The sky was just beginning to lighten, and Taarie watched as the glorious sun slowly began its rise over the mountains to the east. Hawks swooped in circles over the towers of Solitude, expertly weaving around the windmills as they called to each other with majestic, screeching cries. For the first time in forever she saw an entire family of deer trot down the normally busy road to the capital, taking full advantage of the lack of people to nibble on thistle that grew along the walls.

Haafingar was a wonderful place, the whole reason she hadn't minded being sent by her superiors to Skyrim. Magnificence such as this didn't exist in Summerset and, as much as she loved her home in Alinor, she had always been far more enamored with rugged, natural beauty than the polished towers and statuary the Altmer clung to. Not a damn one of her kind seemed to know how to enjoy the world the gods gave them, opting instead to fawn over the needlessly ornate and helplessly dated.

The sound of Endarie mumbling to herself dragged her from her daydreaming. Glancing over her shoulder, Taarie watched as her twin paced against the cobblestone, shifting uneasily in her armor. She complained of how uncomfortable leather was and how she detested the fact her legs were visible. She complained about how Sanyon would have had their heads for even dreaming of endangering the Beautiful in such a way. She whined about the fact that the store was abandoned, and it was _warm_ in there but freezing out in the open.

Mostly, she just seemed unhappy about the prospect of having to possibly fight. There was no fear in her voice—Endarie was as tough as her attitude—but the idea of combat just seemed like a massive inconvenience. A massive and _messy_ inconvenience that could potentially muss her hair and smear her make-up.

"Don't you have more important things to worry about?" Taarie asked, adjusting the pauldron of her plate armor.

"Like the fact you're giving our family a bad name by dressing like a bloody barbarian?"

"If you wish to talk fashion disasters, I'd like you to walk down to the docks and look into the water. When you notice the woman wearing dead cow and wolf hair staring back at you, you're allowed to comment."

"It's made of _mammoth _and _bear_, you cretin."

"Oh, dear, did I give the impression that I cared?"

Endarie threw up her hands and groaned, continuing her pacing and doubling her angry muttering. Taarie only laughed. Having grown up with such a moody lady, she had become a master of tuning her out.

"… Ondolemar?"

That word was enough to catch her attention, however. Cocking an eyebrow and turning her back to the stone wall, she leaned against it and glanced over at her sister expectantly. Endarie only glared back, apparently having not caught onto the fact that Taarie hadn't caught wind of what she was saying, crossing her arms and tapping her foot as she impatiently waited for a response.

Noticing that she wasn't going to repeat herself without being prompted, Taarie finally asked, "Did you say something?"

"I asked you where Ondolemar was. You said he was on his way. That he would be here with the sun."

"He's coming."

"I bet you anything he's in Cidhna Mine _right now_."

"He'll be here."

"He's going to end up deader than Sanyon, deader than Kemmeron, deader than _you_, when I get through with you."

"Relax."

It was easier said than done. Even Taarie's heart was leaping about wildly, her mind consumed with doubts about the safety of their newly appointed leader. Even if he was alright, who knew for how long? The second they stepped foot on the embassy grounds, all bets were off. They'd be lucky if they made it out with all their limbs, alive and successful or not.

Besides, Endarie had calmed down considerably compared to how she had been when first told of the plan. Still grieving for her beloved Sanyon, she had reacted just as well to the suggestion of a full assault as one would expect: she wailed and then took a swing at her sister. She locked herself in their room and shattered all the good ceramics. She told a customer, in no uncertain terms, that she would rather breed with a welwa than take his order and that he was welcome to do the same.

Fortunately, Falk had understood Endarie's mood when Taarie had chased him down the street and explained that her bitterness came from the grief of losing her betrothed. Given the fact that Elisif's loss of Torygg was still fresh on everyone's mind, he had offered his condolences and told her that he'd just deal with her from then on. That is, Taarie realized, if they could ever go back to their old jobs after this.

Now, her sister was full of fire, her stress replaced with characteristic whining and anger. She muttered insults about Elenwen, about how her cheekbones jutted out like cliffs and her blush was too dark for her complexion. Her robes weren't flattering whatsoever, since she always seemed to wear a size too large. Sprinkled between this and her complaints, she issued several creative threats that ranged from making Elenwen forcibly _eat_ her tacky shoes to hurling her off a cliff by "that rat's nest she calls a hairdo."

"If he doesn't get here soon, I'll walk there myself," Endarie threatened. Taarie glowered at her and shook her head.

"The hell you will, Endarie. If Ondolemar doesn't show up, he left us with strict orders to…"

"I know. You told me. However, I don't make a habit of listening to gutterchurl from Firsthold. _I_ listened to _Sanyon_."

"And you keep saying he'd be livid if he knew we were planning this."

"Well, I never said I was perfect!"

Taarie would have responded, but her thoughts were interrupted by the rhythmic beating of hooves. Immediately, her mouth slammed closed and she straightened her posture, gazing down the south road to see if she could catch a glimpse of anything of interest. It could have been one of those hoity-toity Nordic "nobles" or perhaps just some horse thief hoping to escape into the mountains. Maybe it was even a particularly heavy elk.

She knew what she wished it was, though: a carriage with their boss in tow or even just him awkwardly flailing down the road with rock-filled boots on every limb. Just seeing him alive would have filled her with relief. It would die the second they started down the road to the embassy, but _still_.

The sight of a painted draft horse greeted her, its billowing mane obscuring whoever was atop it. Endarie didn't even look at them, stepping out of their way and continuing her pacing against the wall. Taarie almost lost interest until she caught sight of a black-gloved hand gesturing from behind the screen of snow-white hair. At first, her heart leaped into her throat; it didn't occur to her that it could be anyone but a Thalmor inquisitor or maybe Elenwen herself, rushing from the embassy to nab suspected Beautiful agents.

Then the horse stopped in front of them, the rider pulled down his hood, and a sneering, bald Altmer looked down at them with all the feigned arrogance he could muster. Straightening his shoulders and barely able to contain the pride in his voice, he stared down his nose at the women.

"I do hope you peasants are prepared to explain why you're not groveling at my feet and basking in my radiance."

If looks could kill, Endarie would have been arrested for murder right then and there. She glared daggers at Ondolemar, although he paid her no mind. He only offered a passive smirk when she uttered a curse and threw herself back against the wall, snorting. Taarie only laughed, letting out a sigh of relief as she watched Ondolemar dismount his trusty steed.

The poor animal seemed exhausted, claw marks covering its flank and its nose flaring with every heaving breath. Its hooves were caked in mud and one of its shins seemed a bit wobbly, perhaps from a fall or a blow. For all his zest, Ondolemar didn't seem much better, with blood caked to his shoulder and singe marks across his neck and face. He hobbled a bit when his boots met the road, exhaustion having robbed him of his land legs.

"For a second, you almost sounded like Elenwen," she commented as she reached out to steady him. He swatted her hand away and braced himself on the horse instead. He actually seemed offended that she thought he needed the help.

"I've had a lot of practice," he explained gruffly, before taking note of the two's attire. "I am to assume you both are prepared?"

"Of course, sir. The question is, _are you_?"

Ondolemar snorted dismissively.

"If you're concerned about my ability to hold my own in the embassy, rest assured that I look worse off than I truly am. Besides, even though I lost my mace, I have always been a master of magic."

"How did you lose your mace?"

He didn't answer.

Instead, he gestured towards the two of them and asked, "Are you prepared to spring Kemmeron? Or, at the very least, what is left of him?"

"Been ready since bloody midnight," Endarie snapped. "What's the plan?"

Taarie arched an eyebrow and turned to Ondolemar expectantly. Part of her expected—and perhaps hoped—that he hadn't completely thought the attack through. It would buy them a bit of time if he had to stop and think about it, time she could use to perhaps steel her nerves. Her hopes were dashed when she saw a spark of excitement in those golden eyes of his, him stepping close and speaking low so as not to attract the attention of anyone who could possibly wander past.

"I know how to get into the embassy with minimal issues," he assured them. "It may prove difficult as it's one hell of a climb, but having worked with the both of you in Skywatch, I have confidence that the three of us can manage."

"We're scaling the wall?" Endarie snarled, seemingly frustrated. Ondolemar shook his head.

"No. The embassy dungeons are directly attached to an old cave where the Thalmor dump bodies. The corpse chute is rather tall, but the sides are craggy and close enough together to shimmy up. It is actually how that bloody Blades fellow escaped a few months back when the security was breached."

"And getting out?" Taarie asked curiously. "We will have an injured fourth party, perhaps. If it's one hell of a climb without carrying a broken mer…"

Ondolemar waved his hand dismissively.

"While you two were busy catering to commoners, I was busy studying old spells from the time of the Second Numidium. Arcane Alteration spells that were lost to time or outright outlawed. While I cannot figure out levitation for the life of me, I have managed to become, uh, _proficient_ at the jumping spells popular amongst Third Era Telvanni. In fact, I..."

"Jumping spells won't break your fall, Ondolemar," she interjected, cutting him off. Somewhere in the back of her mind, she knew that he would have carried on forever if she hadn't. For as poised and intimidating as he liked to present himself, he was still a scholarly wizard at heart. If Taarie had learned anything about wizards in her time with The Beautiful, it was that—should the subject of magic come up in any situation—they would harp on their studies until the end of time.

"But slowfalling spells _will_," he snapped. "They're relatively simple, but the art was mostly lost with the destruction of much of the Telvanni lands. You see, back in their heyday, the Telvanni wizards lived in remote places only accessible through flight or acrobatics, so high up that the only safe way to descend was to alter the very nature of Nirn's pull to…"

"So, you're saying you know the spell?" Endarie demanded. He looked rather aggravated that he was being interrupted yet again, his shoulders slumping and his lip pulling up in disgust. With a roll of his eyes and a shake of his head, he folded his arms and snorted.

"Yes, I know the slowfalling spells. Should Kemmeron still be alive, I can bring him down without causing further damage. Of course, if he's dead, we could always just chuck him in the pit and drag him out by his feet."

"And us?" Taarie asked curiously.

"Bloody hell, I'm not carrying everyone. You know healing spells. If you break a bone, fix it."

While Taarie found humor in his words, Endarie did not. Grumbling about both Elenwen _and_ Ondolemar, she turned without being instructed and started towards the northwestern road. Although he answered her muttering with a few choice words of his own, Ondolemar did nothing to correct her. He straightened his robe, raised his hood, and simply started in the same direction. His gait was still a bit wobbly, but it seemed to correct itself the further along he went and, before long, he was actively trying to outpace Endarie.

Glancing up at his forgotten horse, Taarie shook her head. She spared a quick glance into her knapsack to take a quick inventory of supplies. A few potions were nestled beside a bundle of lockpicks and an extra dagger, scrolls of various spells squished underneath two apples that she failed to eat for breakfast.

"Perhaps later," she sighed as she closed her sack and jogged to catch up with her sister. After all, a hungry warrior was a ferocious warrior.


	9. Making Friends With the Neighbor

The cell next to him was silent and it unnerved him. Even though Caerdil had been far rougher with him, even going so far as to leave the pins rammed under his nails, he couldn't help but worry about Frisi. She was young and human, and humans were short lived and fragile by nature. While he was conditioned to take damage, honed by superior blood and superior training, he could only guess she lived the soft life of a farmer in some quiet, backwoods town where the worst agony she ever experienced was the birth of her child.

Though he couldn't have claimed to experience such a thing and he never would, he could assume that it paled in comparison to the Thalmor's interrogation methods. If childbirth was worse than having bones forcibly realigned and having hot nails driven into your hip bone, then the species would have died off long ago. Only the sload would have been left to populate the world.

He waited until the footsteps of his tormentors died away and the sound of a door clicking shut reached his ears. Even then, he was silent for a few moments, halfway believing it to be a trick. He hadn't known the Thalmor to fake out their prisoners but, since he was so well-versed on their ways, who was to say they weren't trying a new tactic or two?

After a few minutes of silence, Kemmeron decided they were actually gone. His body reacted adversely when he tried to move his head, a hot and searing pain shooting from his pelvis to the back of his skull. His shoulders felt like they were on fire. His neck felt like it was breaking. His entire face throbbed as he tried to force his blackened eyes to open just a bit wider.

"Frisi."

The quiet that answered him made his heart skip a beat. He hissed in agony and fought against the unnatural heaviness in his body as he twisted it as much as he could. The ghost of her came into view, a blurry mass of pale white skin and ratty, dark hair. He could have sworn she had been darker before, sun-baked from a life of manual labor. How on Nirn had she turned so white so quickly?

"Frisi."

He swore he saw movement, but it was so slight that he wasn't entirely sure if he had imagined it or not. An unsteady sigh passed his lips. Mustering all of his strength, he inhaled sharply and braced himself for pain.

"Human!"

Raising his voice was surprisingly agonizing. His lungs burned and his ribs creaked uneasily, the muscles in his chest and side tightening and seemingly tearing themselves apart. He broke down into uncontrollable coughing and the pain intensified, blood and spittle staining the floor and bars of his cell.

Then, he heard it: rattling shackles and a groan. He couldn't help but smile.

"E…lf?"

She sounded weak and broken, like a shattered children's toy that had learned to talk. For a moment, he regretted rousing her. He knew himself that speaking was difficult, just as much as he knew that the bouts of unconsciousness were the only relief that existed anymore. Though he didn't want to admit it, he knew the whole reason he had bothered her was greed.

He didn't want to be alone. Proud as he was, powerful as he was, the only comfort he had was in the fact he wasn't suffering by himself. Barbarian or not, Frisi was the one thing that kept him from giving in completely. Whether it was out of concern or a desire to outdo her, he wasn't sure.

"Don't do that," he warned weakly, falling limp against his restraints. "One day you'll black out and you won't wake up."

"I'm bleeding," came her hoarse reply. Kemmeron swallowed hard.

"Badly?"

"They didn't…"

Her voice began to trail like a child beginning to fall asleep. She seemed to be losing consciousness again and he knew, deep down, that he couldn't allow that to happen. Forgetting his own pain, he frantically began to talk. His entire chest tightened and his lungs seemed to fill with cold water, but he was overcome with the _need_ to keep her engaged.

"Frisi, you said you had a daughter?"

He tried to sound casual, but he was an absolute mess. It came out in a rasp, words caught in the back of his throat, and an injured jaw that wouldn't close correctly made him sound like a drunken oaf. If draugr could hold dinner conversations, they would sound like Kemmeron.

For a moment, he thought she wouldn't answer. Then, Frisi coughed. He swore he heard a weak, nostalgic laugh.

"Her name is Blodwyn."

Despite the fact she seemed destroyed, there was a smile in her voice. Pride, perhaps. The woman was obviously very much the doting mother whenever she wasn't chained to a wall in a Thalmor prison. Even if it was hard for him to think of humans as equal, her devotion made his heart hurt.

"That's an odd name for a Nord," he quipped, trying to at least feint enthusiasm. This time, he was certain she chuckled, though it was nearly lost in her wet wheezing.

"My husband was Bosmer. I… I tried to give her a more elven name… but…"

He found himself legitimately shocked. A Bosmer? Really? The idea seemed ridiculous, considering that they were in league with the Altmer, but their woodland cousins had always seemed far more lax than his people. Perhaps the idea of one being reduced to marrying an uncultured brute was believable.

"It sounds Breton," he replied, trying to keep the conversation going.

"That is what Aengoth said. He liked it, though."

Her voice was fading again. He was losing her.

"What about this Aengoth?"

"Widow."

Her voice was completely empty now, and the word was spoken so matter-of-factly that he cringed. Of course, cringing caused him to ache all over and he hissed between clenched teeth. It took him a moment to find it within himself to speak again.

"He is gone, then? What happened?"

"He hunted. Was in the forests outside Riften."

"And?"

"Bandits in a ruined tower. Never realized they were there. He'd walked past it dozens of times."

She paused and he feared she had blacked out. However, after a moment, her voice rang through the air with surprising clarity.

"Blodwyn couldn't even walk yet."

He hesitated, then croaked, "I'm sorry."

"Do you have family?"

She was turning the questions on him and he felt he knew why. She had caught onto what he was doing, figured out that he were merely trying to keep her awake. This small talk had no sentimental purpose more than it was a means to an end. Obviously it was working, obviously she was struggling to stay with him, but it was equally obvious that she was far too weak to carry the bulk of the conversation. It would be easier for her to ask the questions, to keep herself awake by listening.

"Not anymore," he coughed. "My brother is dead. Killed. Something about a Talos cult and a conspiracy."

"Conspiracy?"

"He was a member of The Beautiful."

He hadn't meant to say that aloud. It just slipped out, as pretty as one pleased, and the cold silence beside him made him paranoid that this _was_ some kind of elaborate set up. When she coughed, he winced and waited. He prepared for a blow, for more questions, more pain. He waited for Rulindil's voice and Caerdil's mace.

Instead, Risi wheezed, "That's a stupid name."

Though it hurt, he laughed. Hard.

"It is, isn't it?" he snorted.

"Who are they?"

"Summerset's equivalent of your Stormcloaks. Only the opposite."

"Huh?"

There was almost a hint of strength in that one bewildered sound. He almost laughed again, but he had learned his lesson the first time, stifling it while he waited for the pressure in his ribs and stomach to subside. A sigh passed out of his nose with some difficulty, clogged as it was with mucous and blood.

"They're rebels, like Ulfric's lot," he explained slowly, his strength draining. "However, your Stormcloaks fight to preserve the Nord way. The Beautiful fight because they are sick of living the Altmer way."

"Why?"

"You have no idea how difficult it is being an Altmer, human. So much emphasis on perfection. Such rigidity. Our traditions aren't honorable, they're murder. The Dominion? An archaic institution, so vile it's become a pestilence. So, we fight."

"We?"

He froze. He had confessed. In his state of agony and exhaustion, his mouth seemed to have a mind of its own.

"You_ are_ a traitor, aren't you?" she asked, her voice fading. He chose to say nothing. If so much as a single Thalmor was left in the room, he had effectively signed his death warrant and he had no desire to dig his grave deeper. Fortunately, she seemed to understand completely and, instead of repeating herself, made a confession of her own.

"It really _was_ my Amulet of Talos, Kemmeron."

He smiled. She continued to ramble, although it was obvious she was bordering on unconsciousness due to how nonsensical she was becoming. Topics lapsed and shifted suddenly, and she drifted from one subject to the next with a fluidity that almost made it seem as though she should make sense. He couldn't lie and say that he wasn't delirious himself; talking was more exhausting than he ever would have thought.

"We're both going to die in this skeever hole, aren't we?"

She seemed to take his silence as an affirmation. A loud, angry sigh passed her lips, along with a weak curse.

"To hell with the Thalmor."


	10. The Cave

It was a horrible, ragged thing with breath like a morgue and eyes like obsidian. Its white fur was unfit to line even the cloak of a beggar, ratty and stained red from the blood of the dozens of bodies the Thalmor had unwittingly fed it. Angrily, it stomped its feet ferociously at the bottom of a snowy cavern slope, ankle-deep in a pile of half-finished meals. Long, muscular arms flailed, apparently in an attempt to make it look even larger, and a loud, rolling cry echoed throughout the glittering snow cave.

Taarie stared. She had heard of frost trolls from the travelers at the Winking Skeever during her lunch breaks, but she had never seen one face-to-face. It didn't seem as deadly as the snowy saber cats they had stumbled across on their way down the rocky hills from the embassy, but it was certainly more impressive than she imagined, in a gross, monstrous, this-looks-like-something-from-the-Aldmeris-Tapest ries sort of way. They'd fit right in, wedged in between the roaring welwas and malformed Ilyadi.

It turned to her, snarled, and without warning it charged. It loped on all fours, knuckles carrying it along with surprising speed. It closed the gap between them quicker than she anticipated, taking a mighty swing at her with large, clawed hands. She anticipated the blow, waiting for those ungodly talons to rip into her armor, and was quite surprised when it stopped just short of her and let out a deafening shriek, throwing its head backwards. Its body followed and, within seconds, the beast was on its back in a pile of snow, its jaw slack and an arrow neatly lodged in the center of its third eye.

"You dress like a warrior and you won't even defend yourself. I swear to Auri-El, dear sister…"

She turned in time to see Endarie holster her bow on her back, her face stuck in its permanent scowl although there was something of a smile to her eyes. Blinking, she watched as her beloved sibling marched past her and stopped at the side of the frost troll's corpse. She considered it for only a moment before violently ripping the arrow from its face and placing it back in the quiver.

"Did you see how disgusting that thing was?" Taarie snapped. "I didn't want to _touch _it."

"Kemmeron probably looks worse, so I would get over it if I were you."

Taarie sighed and followed as her sister began to walk the perimeter of the small cavern. Ondolemar had called it the "reeking cave" for a lack of better words, citing that it was well hidden but that they could probably follow the smell. It had still taken quite a while to find it, the three of them pacing the roads below the Steed Stone for what seemed like hours before their glorious leader had the presence of mind to make use of an old illusion spell. A little training in clairvoyance went a long way.

She had expected more, though. Though the cave did give off a horrific scent, the accumulated stench of years of decomposing corpses, it was so much smaller and more barren than she thought it would be. Snow had blanketed everything in a deceptive layer of innocent white and light filtered in through gaps in the stone to make everything almost blinding. While there was a neat pile of bloody bones and sinew where the troll had been eating, there was far less gore than she expected. Most of it was animal remains—a mammoth ribcage here and a deer skull there—and the only fresh corpse seemed to be that of a Dunmer mage in black robes that had apparently been a kill of the troll itself.

Looking over her shoulder, she could see Ondolemar standing on a rocky outcropping near the entrance, his arms folded and his eyes fixed toward the top of the north wall. He seemed completely withdrawn from everything going on around him, consumed in his own thoughts. The only thing that made him budge was the realization that he was being watched and, with a sigh, he jerked his head towards to Taarie's left.

"There's a ledge."

His voice was dry and matter of fact, but loud enough to attract Endarie's attention from the other side of the floor. She whirled around and cocked an eyebrow, following his gaze until her eyes came to rest on an opening in the rocks above the corpse of the mage. Her scowl vanished for a brief moment, replaced with a look of arrogance.

"Oh, it's up there? That is the 'hell of a climb?'"

Ondolemar shook his head and snorted a laugh and Endarie's smile fell. Taarie only grimaced as she walked a bit closer to the ledge and looked up. A sheer wall of rock that was easily twice her height? Her being clad in steel plate armor? She wasn't sure what kind of miracle Ondolemar was expecting, but there was no way in hell she was going to manage to get up that high. She was a terrible climber even without the extra fifty pounds of metal weighing her down.

"Above that and about twenty paces beyond is the chute I was telling you about," he explained. "There's a trap door at the top of it, possibly locked. Possibly guarded. I'll ascend first and take care of both of those problems."

"Oh, how kind of you," Endarie sighed, traipsing over beside her sister. She brushed past Taarie with an almost affectionate sweep of the hair before coming to rest beside a large mammoth bone that had been picked clean of all flesh. Rising beside it was a peculiar pillar of stone that ran up to the ledge Ondolemar had pointed out, with just enough of a gap between it and the wall to give Endarie room to squeeze her petite frame.

Though it was slick from frost and blood, Endarie wasted no time. Her leather boots dug into the rock, slipping a few times before she found a good foothold and she pressed her back against the pillar. In any other situation, Taarie would have found the sight of her awkwardly scooting up towards the ledge hilarious, her leather armor squeaking against the moist basalt and her face contorted into a mixture of discomfort and determination. Her feet shuffled awkwardly and, on a few occasions, she forced herself to bounce like a woman on a bumpy carriage ride to throw herself up more than a fourth of an inch at a time.

Her final "jump" almost ended disastrously, her threatening to slip when her boot hit a patch of hanging moss and slid. Slamming herself backward and jamming her feet forward, she knocked the wind clear out of herself and let out a strangled curse. Then, carefully, with her butt still pressed against the pillar, she leaned forward and wrapped her fingers around the top of the ledge. With a bit of determination, awkward twisting, and positioning that gave everyone an unwanted view up her skirt, she managed to drag herself through the opening in the stones.

Although she remained crouched, looking down at her sibling and superior with a snotty look of pride, it was obvious that there was enough room to stand. Taarie let out a sigh of relief, then looked back expectantly at Ondolemar.

"How do you propose we get up there?" she asked after a pause. He arched an eyebrow and huffed.

"I know the jump spells. You? I do not know."

As dry as his voice was, she could read it as a joke. It was more apparent when he approached her side and, like some manner of curious child, threw open her pouch and began thumbing through her belongings. She snarled at him, a meaningless threat about keeping his paws off of her things, but he paid no more mind to her than the men in the moons. He sighed, leather glove squeaking as his fingers slid across thick glass phials, shaking his head and mouthing words to himself as he sorted.

The square bottle of paralysis poison was obviously not what he was after. Neither was the lovely, thin green vial of stamina tonic. The red ceramic finish of cheap health potions did not catch his eye. Instead, he plucked out an oddly shaped, opalescent bottle the color of alabaster, scented faintly of copper and fungus. He took a bit of time to pop the cork, giving a good whiff before tilting it toward Taarie.

"Strength potion?" he asked, and she tilted her head away in disgust with a nod. Without so much as asking permission, he took a quick swig and squeezed the cork back into place. It was one fluent motion as he tucked the bottle back in her pack, closed the flap, and lifted her up as easily as a load of firewood. She protested at first, until she realized what he was getting at.

Ondolemar—ranking Beautiful member in Skyrim and born of the same blood as Saririil the Zealous—was allowing her to use him as a stepping stool. He didn't seem pleased about it, grunting and snarling at her as she clambered up him awkwardly like a bear scaling a tree, but he remained still as she fit her feet upon his shoulders, hobbling as the weight of her bag threw off her balance.

"Anytime before this _bloody potion wears off_," he growled. Taarie almost cursed back; it wasn't as though she was purposely trying to take her time. Up on her toes and clinging to the wall like a scared cat, she still found it impossible to reach the ledge. Her fingers curled around roots and rocks, dislodging them before they proved of any use. Endarie watched curiously, smirking arrogantly with a shake of her head.

Fortunately, there were no jabs made at her ego. She fell to her stomach, reached out as far as her arms would allow, and knitted her fingers into Taarie's own. It was surprising how powerful such a petite mer could be but, following a brief struggle rife with kicking and Ondolemar's loud curses, Taarie found herself up beside her sister. Sore and cold but only slightly annoyed, Endarie leaned back against the cavern wall and chuckled breathlessly.

It had been far too long since they had done anything active. It was shameful how out of practice they were.

Slowly, Taarie climbed to her feet and examined this portion of the cave. There was no snow, only soaked rocks and icicles, a couple of startled bats that regarded her with weary eyes, and mounds of bones that were stripped by both scavengers and rot. A fresh heap of dead bodies, unceremoniously piled upon one another, signaled the end of a dark, winding path that cut deep into the rock. They were of all kinds and stank to the heavens, the same horrific odor that had permeated the rest of the cave. It was just stronger here.

A strange sound, like a high-pitched purr, sounded from behind her and caused her to jump. Endarie didn't seem too concerned, but Taarie whipped around with her hand on her weapon's hilt. Even as she watched a dark figure rise up miraculously from the edge of the ledge, her heart still beat furiously. Ondolemar practically hovered with his robe billowing all around him, dazzling violet sparks dancing around his body like wisps summoned straight from the Soul Cairn. As graceful and awe-inspiring as his appearance had been, his landing lacked grace; his feet slipped from under him on a slick patch of moss, and he fell to his hands and knees with a grunt.

"The glories of the old magics," Endarie mocked in an empty tone, holding out her hands in a gesture that would have been grandiose if she hadn't been so listless. "Praise Auri-El that you saved them from obscurity."

"I will end you," Ondolemar warned darkly, staggering to his feet. Endarie only smiled, following his lead and brushing bits of dust and bone from her legs and armor. Side-by-side, they pushed down the narrow path past a still-stunned Taarie, although they didn't make it more than a few feet away before she found herself on their heels.

"The body chute is at the end," Ondolemar explained, as though that much wasn't obvious. His nose crinkled with his words as he continued to speak, although Endarie had tuned him out in favor of her own complaints. Taarie's eyes never left the pile of carcasses at the end of the line, her head tilting slightly as she tried to make heads or tails of the tangled mass of limbs.

One was a khajiit, their face partially peeled away so that one side of their skull was stuck in a permanent, fanged grin. He was pinned beneath a mostly nude Nord male whose body had shriveled to resemble a draugr, his mouth open in a twisted scream. His pale blue eyes were focused on an orc, whose neck was twisted at a weird angle and whose lips dripped masses of maggots that hungrily feasted on the soft flesh inside her mouth. The top body was a Bosmer, fresh and beautiful, somehow preserved by the frost and clad in a fancy serving gown that was somehow untouched by the decay around her.

"This is how Malborn and that sell-sword escaped, if I remember correctly. Hard to believe they got down from there without injury," Ondolemar murmured to himself, although he seemed completely detached from his words. He fished around an inside pocket until he found a lock pick and knife and, gripping both in one hand, he cautiously maneuvered around the bodies and craned his neck upwards. A rune was drawn in the air with his spare hand, and within moments he vanished up into an unseen darkness as though sucked up by a great force.

Both sisters bolted forward, almost stumbling over each other and the pile of bodies to get a glimpse at where he had gone. There was nothing but inky blackness looming above until, with a small sizzle, a bright white light ripped across the void like a shooting star and adhered itself to a wall. A magelight, Taarie realized with a smirk, and looking past it she could see Ondolemar precariously holding himself up in the gap between the rocks in the same, awkward pose that Endarie had used to climb.

"Up," he encouraged. "When I get this door open, I want you right behind me."

"It's pretty far up," Endarie protested, her first hint of doubt since their quest began. Ondolemar didn't even look down from fiddling with the lock, the tell-tale scrape and click of metal against metal revealing that he was having an impossible time forcing it to open. If she hadn't seen him previously break the lock on the Crystal Tower library countless times to assist Saririil in his schemes, Taarie's would have thought it was a lost cause.

"Use the bodies," he answered. Much to Taarie's surprise, her sister didn't hesitate. She rested a boot on the Bosmer's chest and, quick as an Alfiq, scrambled upwards. Taarie herself was far more hesitant, a cold rush of disgust sweeping through her as she put her weight on the corpse and felt it give, able to _feel_ the rot and organs shift and squish beneath her metal boot. When she first stepped up, she had been uncertain of whether she could have made it up the gap in the stone.

Then, her foot practically sank into the stomach cavity of the body. Its lifeless eyes stared at her almost pleadingly, dark as night and somehow sad despite being so empty. Immediately, she was up and almost bumping Endarie's leg with her head.

It took a moment to steady herself. This climbing business was far more difficult than her companions made it look, the moisture dripping down the cavern wall making it difficult to keep the steel from sliding. She maneuvered almost wildly, stopping only when something glinted in the air and fell on her stomach just as the magelight extinguished above her.

Even through the steel and leather of her gauntlet, even after being plunged into the dark, she could tell what was on her. It was long and thin and made a metallic ringing noise as it struck her. A lockpick. And seeing as there were no rough edges, it wasn't a broken one.

"Alert when ready," Ondolemar firmly commanded. His voice was hushed and hoarse, almost frightening in the dark.

"Ready," Endarie answered. "Go whenever you get sick of pushing your arse in my face."

Taarie let the lockpick drop, her feet slid, and she barely caught herself by ramming her elbows into the side of the wall. The shriek of her armor grinding against the stone made her teeth grit.

"Oh, for the love of the Eight, just _go_."

* * *

**A/N: ****I normally don't do author's notes, but I figured it'd only be fair to throw out there that I may not update as quickly as usual from now on. I start work again in a few days (I'm a teaching assistant), so my time may be devoured by that and classes. I figured it'd only be fair if I left you guys with something more than Kemmeron having a chat. I do have a few chapters written ahead, so there's that? And I'll try to keep it going relatively quickly, just maybe not an update every day like I have been.**

**I also want to thank you all for every kind word you have given me. You have no idea how much I look forward to hearing from those of you who're still reading. You guys are great. I don't know you, but I love you, and I would give you all a hug if I could, unless you're not one of those touchy types. In which case, I'd air-five you.**


	11. Jail Break

He had lost count of how many times he had broken his own heart. With the lines between dreams and reality blurring together, how could he not? He would fall unconscious and dream that he had died, ascending to Auri-El's side and promised that he would never feel pain again. Then something would hit him, crack his jaw or fracture a leg, and he would open his eyes and see those blazing yellows of Caerdil boring into him. Sometimes, he would imagine that he had escaped, tasting the cold air of Skyrim and actually being _grateful_ to see the frigid wasteland, and then something would drive into his side and the illusion was gone.

In fact, he wasn't even sure if the previous session had been real. His side seemed sore, but it had stayed sore. After all, it seemed his ribs were Caerdil's favorite target. How could he be certain that he had actually been stabbed? That was a bit drastic, even for the standards of the Thalmor, and the tool he had used—some strange curved blade decorated with weird, barbaric markings—hadn't seemed real at all.

Beyond that, they hadn't touched Frisi. She was always due for a little punishment whenever Rulindil strolled in, often immediately before they turned the bulk of their attentions to him. However, he couldn't remember them opening her cell or even mentioning her name. Perhaps he had been unconscious, or perhaps all of this was just a dream and his delusions were now just as devoid of hope as he was.

He wanted to sigh, but he couldn't. His nose had swollen shut hours ago, his jaw hanging slack and untreated after a particularly brutal blow from Rulindil himself. He wavered, drooping eyes struggling to glance to Frisi just to make sure she was still there. When he caught sight of a blob of human-colored blurriness, a bit of relief flooded his mind, intensified when he swore he saw it waver.

So, she was moving. That was good.

From the opposite side of him, he could hear the scratch of a quill on paper and the faint hum of a man's voice threatening to break into a bored ditty. Something clicked lightly against glass before the scribbling intensified. The tune became louder, but it was broken into shards by the pulsing in his head. He'd catch a snippet, then silence, a disjointed rhythm, then silence. Kemmeron made a horrible, ghastly noise like something of a groan, although it sounded like a muffled howl inside his head.

The humming intensified. Whoever was beside him was attempting to drown him out, as casually as a parent would talk over a whiny child. It wasn't Rulindil, seeing as Elenwen had sent down one of the battlemages to personally request his presence in the reception area, presumably to make nice with some piss-ant Nord "king" who'd later wind up crushed under the Ambassador's boot. He could only assume it was Caerdil, joyously putting in extra hours in his favorite part of the embassy.

What was he writing, though? It wasn't necessary to take notes about how much blood a mer could lose without dying, and it wasn't as though he had said anything of interest. At least, he didn't think he had, save to Frisi. Had they heard him talk to Frisi? He couldn't remember and he didn't have the energy to care.

His eyelids fluttered and his gaze turned straight ahead. From his restraints, he had a pretty good view of the opposite wall, even having memorized how many dark spots were in the wood grain and how many planks ran along the niche where the trapdoor was located. The objects on the table beside the door itself were always changing, apparently on a daily basis. He used them to keep track of time.

Three days. He had been locked in that damnable prison for three days. _Just_ three days. Gods, why didn't Arkay just pluck him away?

The world went black for a moment, then gradually returned into view. Something creaked, but the aspiring writer by his side didn't seem to notice. While Kemmeron noticed, he couldn't respond, and a sense of panic gripped him when the sound began again. There was no answer from either side of him; the writing never ceased, and Frisi never spoke.

Again.

This time, Kemmeron saw the source. The trapdoor that he had stared at for days was moving, gradually rising like an ancient coffin being pried open by its inhabitant. A dark hand reached out of the darkness, an extension of the void, apparently clawed and vicious. Gradually, the shadows gave birth to a beast that embodied its very essence, as dark as night and cloaked like death itself.

His blood ran cold when he watched the creature slide from the darkness and then hunch over like a predatory beast, talons flexing by its side. Glinting eyes shifted toward him as he struggled to focus, to make the image a bit less blurry to try to calm his mounting fears. He swore he saw it grin, some horrible fanged grin. It slithered out of sight, and then…

Kemmeron shrieked involuntarily as a flash of light startled him, and continued shrieking when he saw the darkness spit out two more horrible creatures. One was as silver as the starlight, hand ending in a blade that would have made a sphere centurion look tame. The other, apparently some manner of fur-bearing beast, howled curses in a vaguely familiar voice and threw itself towards his cell like a possessed troll.

The door flung open. His stomach twisted into knots. Freezing hands grabbed him roughly around the neck, and he both cursed and thanked Arkay for finally ending his miserable life. His jaw was forced, quite brutally, back into place and his skull was forced back so that all he could see was the dank, stained ceiling looming above him. Shrieks and frantic cries surrounded him, searing heat and white flashes of light adding to the hellish atmosphere.

Slender fingers wrapped gently around his chin and pulled his mouth open, resting something glass against his teeth. He tried to tilt his head away when his fading senses distinctly picked out the scent of skeever and swamp fungus. His stomach lurched and an attempt at protest came out as a strangled moan resembling that of a cow. When his captor lost its patience, it drained some horrible concoction into his mouth and then forced his jaw shut to keep it down.

It tasted like wet dog smelled and he regretted the fact that his senses hadn't died enough to numb that part out. He could feel a warmth pool in his chest, feel creaking bones trying to knit together and torn flesh trying to sew itself up. It burned and it ached and for a moment he was hopeful, even if he still found himself incredibly weak and wracked with pain.

The monster let go of his head and it fell limply forward. The blur began to fade, but before he could glimpse at his strange savior, his arms fell limply to his sides and he crumbled to the ground. Groaning and writhing, it took all of his effort to rise up on his hands and knees. Still, he was impressed he could do that much.

"Up," a voice commanded and, with little regard for his comfort, he was yanked to his feet and whirled around. His eyes fell upon those of a frazzled, older Altmer with mussed hair and smeared lipstick who smelled of death and grime. The monster, it would seem, was his brother's fiancée, Endarie.

"We're leaving," she barked. It was more than a bit of a surprise and he stared, dumbstruck, before his knees began to wobble and give way beneath him. Endarie held on tight, throwing his arm around her shoulder and beginning to drag him away.

She only made it as far as the wall before he was dropped, however. Something struck her hard and she let out a cry, stumbling forth and turning free of Kemmeron. He collapsed to the ground, his head smacking against the floorboards and, hissing in agony, he struggled to hoist himself up.

It didn't work. He watched, helplessly, as a mer in a black robe slashed at Endarie with a golden blade. She nimbly leapt away, producing her own dagger from her boot, and stabbed back at him like a woman possessed. The look on her face was one he had seen on saber cats many, many times: a primal hunger, endless rage, and raw power gifted by the gods themselves. Her orange eyes shone with absolute hatred as she was knocked back across the table, rolling to the floor although she immediately sprang to her feet and charged.

Then, the bigger picture came into view. The other two mysterious figures were now clearly visible as the fog began to lift, revealed as people he trusted and recognized.

The silvery beast was none other than Taarie, her sword clutched in her hand as she stood at the base of the stairs leading to the Solar. A steady stream of guards who had heard the commotion charged through the door, shimmering like the sun in the candlelight. The first of the flood let out a horrible cry as she cleaved straight into his moonstone armor, the sharpened edge of her ebony blade slicing through the thin metal like a hot poker through butter. Cut clean to the bone, he fell away and collapsed, eventually expiring in a pool of his own blood and filth as his comrades fell upon Taarie like a swarm of locusts.

Their weapons clashed against her plated armor, leaving dents and marks but never managing to puncture the steel. Although far from light on her feet, she proved strong enough to hold her ground like a senche tiger. Her poise and elegance was forgotten, replaced with a ferocity better fitting a berserker. She whirled and slashed, only stopping once when a blade nicked her ear.

She reached up and felt the tip was missing. She cursed herself for not wearing her "tacky" helmet. Then, she impaled him with enough force to lift him straight into the air.

The shadow creature that had led the charge, Kemmeron realized, was none other than Ondolemar. It was shocking considering what he had heard whispers of the mer being under "house arrest" in Markarth while his guards waited patiently for him to make one wrong move. Kemmeron supposed it was fair to assume that his charge into the embassy dungeons counted as a "slip up."

An aura of pure fire engulfed the mer as he tussled with a desperate Caerdil and a few of Taarie's strays, his hands sizzling with electricity so white hot that it seemed his gloves were beginning to melt. Sneering as he fought, he launched a bolt of lightning that ripped straight through one of the Thalmor grunts and tore around the room, nearly striking Taarie before causing a rack of weapons along the wall to practically explode. The scent of seared flesh and burning hair tingled Kemmeron's nose as Ondolemar made some strange waving motion with his hand and consumed an entire corner of the chamber with a whirlwind of dancing flame.

Caerdil let out a cry as he was knocked back by the sheer force, slamming against the cell that once contained him and collapsing onto a nearby table. Whatever he was writing was knocked to the ground, sliding across the floor to Kemmeron's reach, and he greedily grasped for it and clutched it close as Ondolemar forcefully snatched Caerdil by the hair of his head and yanked him back towards him. The torturer couldn't fight back as, in a show of uncharacteristic brutality, Ondolemar began knocking the mer's face into the stone wall. With every blow, Caerdil cried out for mercy, but it was obvious that his time as a justiciar had robbed him of such kindness. Whenever he called out, the blows became harder.

Harder.

Harder.

_Crunch._

Even Kemmeron recoiled at the sound, Caerdil's lifeless eyes fixed on him as Ondolemar turned him loose and allowed him to slide limply to the floor. He snarled, turning around to an approaching justiciar, and raised a hand encapsulated in a glowing, frozen mass. One flick of his wrist and his attacker was launched clear across the room by a bright blast of icy blue that rammed through his stomach and impaled him to the wall.

In due time, the fighting began to calm. Endarie dropped the last one with a quick swipe of a blade, the three breathing heavily and exchanging glances before turning their attention to Kemmeron on the floor. Their adrenaline still pulsed and he could still see the bloodlust in their gaze. For a second, he thought they'd turn on him.

"We should leave," Taarie finally said, sheathing her weapon. "Ondolemar?"

The mage wasn't even listening, already halfway to Kemmeron before Taarie had even spoke. He didn't particularly feel _proud_ as Ondolemar hefted him up from the ground, holding him like an overgrown child or his prized bride, but a sense of relief flooded him. Somebody had answered his prayers, whether it was a god or the saints of The Beautiful. As embarrassed as he was for having to be rescued, he likely would have kissed Ondolemar if he had the strength.

Then something sounded off in his mind like an alarm. His head jerked up violently but he ignored the pain.

"Frisi."

The others seemed confused, but he practically clawed at Ondolemar trying to twist out of his hands. Frisi was still locked away. If they were here for him, they may as well free the woman who had kept him from going absolutely insane while in Thalmor custody. She seemed a resilient type despite being human, perhaps even useful to The Beautiful if she could be convinced of it.

"Frisi," he repeated, gesturing towards her cell. He could tell that something clicked in the minds of his comrades because Taarie bolted past the others to the cage. Ondolemar, however, seemed far more tentative, taking careful and quiet steps after Taarie as the seamstress wrestled with the lock. Endarie shifted her weight uneasily behind them, snapping that they had no time to wait, that word probably traveled fast in the embassy.

Her sister would not be moved. The lock clicked and the door swung open, but Taarie did not budge. She lifted her eyes and stared, his mouth a thin line and her brows furrowed. Her hand gradually found its way to her face. She glanced worriedly at Ondolemar, then down at Kemmeron, and everything seemed to freeze in time. The mer didn't have to be told what that look meant, although he had to see it himself.

His eyes traced up from the floor, past blood splatters in the hay and an empty wooden bucket. They found her feet, tangled into one another, stained with waste and grime. Trailing up, he saw snow white skin, bruises, webs of dark veins, and streaks of blood and excrement. Her bare chest was mangled, swollen, sliced. Perhaps Caerdil _had_ been harder on her.

Then, he got to her face. Even through the wild, wiry dark hair and myriad of bruises, he could tell she had once been beautiful. No wonder an elf had fallen for her; she had been the very picture of magnificence before she…

"I'm sorry, Kemmeron," Taarie said softly, but he didn't respond. He could only stare, his brain racing with thoughts of denial. He _had_ seen her move earlier, hadn't he? Or was that just another one of his brain's petty delusions?

"Mourn later," Endarie snarled, stomping toward them. "We have to go. _Now_."

"So soon?"

A female voice cut through the air, and the atmosphere became thick with tension. Ondolemar's head whipped around, his eyes narrowed and his face fixed in a look of solemn rage. Endarie was not nearly as reserved; she stopped mid-stride toward the trapdoor, doubled back with her blade drawn, and practically howled a curse in the direction of the sound. Though Taarie tried to coax her back, it did little good. Her sister was on a warpath.

Glancing up, Kemmeron could see a figure at the top of the stairs, a mer that may have once been attractive but had been marred by age and stress. Her cheeks were sunken, her robes too large, and dark circles ringed around her eyes. She smirked and her eyes sparkled, the very look of the cat that had eaten the canah bird. Ondolemar made a sound that could have been mistaken for a khajiit's growl, whereas Taarie hesitantly approached her sister in an attempt to physically pull her away.

"Elenwen!" Endarie barked, but the woman's eyes looked beyond her. They focused smugly on the two mer in Thalmor robes, Kemmeron trying to move his head so he wouldn't have to meet her gaze. Ondolemar was far braver, instead stepping forward to give her a better look, still gripping on to his battered comrade like a bear guarding its meal.

"You know, I suspected something was wrong with you," the Ambassador chuckled as a line of men in black robes filed behind her. At their helm was none other than Rulindil and, suddenly, every injury Kemmeron had been dealt seemed to flare to life. Having been force-fed a healing potion or not, the very sight of that hollow-eyed bastard seemed to summon pain from the aether.

"Oh, yes," Ondolemar snidely answered, his voice dripping with contempt. "There _is_ something wrong with me, and I'm looking right at it."

Elenwen grimaced.

"Do you have any idea what you're doing, Ondolemar?"

"Do you?"

As he spoke, Kemmeron watched Ondolemar's eyes shift from Elenwen to the man who had interrogated him for days. Rulindil, a beast of a mer whose sole purpose was inflicting pain, suddenly looked quite wounded himself. The shock and horror in his expression mirrored everything Kemmeron felt during his imprisonment, but it was impossible for him to feel pity for the man. Not after what he had done.

Not after Sanyon. Not after Frisi.

"I will _not_ let the Dominion's efforts fail because of some _idiots _who are too blind to see what damage they cause!"

Elenwen's once calm voice was replaced by the shriek of a winged twilight. Her face contorted into something horrible, demonic, and the battlemages at her command shifted in preparation for an attack order. Endarie flinched, though she masked it as a roll of her shoulder and finished by belting out a series of loud insults and nonsensical threats.

"Endarie, _please_," Taarie begged, latching onto her sister's shoulder. She pulled away with a grunt, even as the sound of extra boots filled the air. Ondolemar jumped, a look of sudden panic in his eyes as he whipped around fast enough to make Kemmeron nauseous. They had all forgotten that there were two sets of stairs leading into the room.

A wave of black tore around the corner, and instinctively Taarie bolted for the trap door. Kemmeron had never known her to be a coward, but considering their company, he couldn't say he particularly blamed her. Ondolemar dodged out of the way, unable to defend himself with his hands full although he still looked willing to take on an entire room of Thalmor. Admittedly, Kemmeron _had_ expected that; Sanyon always said that Ondolemar had more bravado than brains at times.

Elenwen's voice was lost in the crackle of spells and the heavy footfall of leather boots clopping like hooves across the wooden floor, Ondolemar's cursing and Endarie's shrieking as she spun like a little whirlwind of death. Taarie ducked under a spray of frost, her hair suddenly shimmering from magical ice, and grabbed desperately at the trapdoor. She belted out orders for the others to flee, her sword swinging wildly and erratically in desperation, showing no hint of the skill she had displayed before.

He heard a strange incantation under Ondolemar's breath and, without hesitation, the mer leaped into the chute. A strange rush of unfamiliar magics washed over him, a tingle that he could hardly describe. It was uncomfortable, fuzzy, and almost nauseating, like a thousand bugs creeping across his skin. The sensation of falling didn't help, his eyes clenched closed and his stomach flipping and twisting. Kemmeron braced himself for impact, holding his breath.

Then it stopped. An eye fluttered open and he looked up at Ondolemar, who stood proudly next to a pile of bodies, gazing up expectantly. His lips twitched as though he wanted to yell. Instead, he remained uncharacteristically silent as a shimmering mass of metal awkwardly landed on top of the heap of corpses with a gut-wrenching crunch.

It was Taarie. Whether the snapping noise was her or the dead, Kemmeron couldn't be certain, but she seemed awfully sore as she sputtered and squalled and writhed, twisting like a cat in the air as she fought to her feet. She desperately shook herself off, flinging away bugs and rot and all manner of disgusting material as she wailed about how she had _ruined_ her armor. She only trailed off after a few moments passed, the slow realization dawning on her that an important third party hadn't yet joined them.

She and Ondolemar exchanged a look that could have been described as "concerned," if one wished to understate. Fighting against her disgust, Taarie clambered over the bodies and stared longingly up the chute. Silence answered her hushed whisper to her sister, followed by a definite slam as the trapdoor was flung shut. The sound triggered something frantic in Taarie, her hoarse whisper rising to a desperate scream as she practically flung herself up to grab the rocks, hysteric and shaking and finding herself unable to scale it once more.

Kemmeron just watched, sighing. It seemed everyone was losing somebody nowadays.

"Taarie," Ondolemar snapped, trying to catch her attention. She ignored him, pleading with the darkness to give back her beloved sibling.

"Taarie!"

She paused and turned back to Ondolemar, her expression that of an elk in a hunter's crosshairs. She made a horrible whining sound, an utterance of pure sorrow. There was no consoling her, although even Kemmeron knew there was no time for grief. He couldn't grieve for Sanyon or his short-lived acquaintance, and Taarie had no second to spare for her apparently lost sister.

"We leave," Ondolemar commanded.

"But… but Endarie…!"

"She is a tough mer. I wouldn't be surprised if we meet her on the path."

"The path to _where_?" she squalled. Ondolemar's eyes narrowed.

"South and east. To Windhelm, Riften, Shor's Stone, _anywhere_ that is on the opposite end of the province. We put distance between us. We regroup."

She answered with a nod and cold silence. Her expression was still that of a broken woman, her sword falling limply out of her hands and she trudged down a winding rock corridor into the darkness. For a moment, Kemmeron felt a pang of resentment toward Ondolemar for his harshness, though he knew there was a damn good reason behind it. Only when he looked up and saw the legitimate concern in the mer's eyes did the anger fade, replaced with sadness and understanding.

"You could have left me."

The words came out of Kemmeron's mouth before he could stop them, and he was answered with a furious glare of disbelief. He felt Ondolemar move, the strange sensation of drifting making his head spin.

"We'll scour for mountain flowers on the path," Ondolemar said, choosing not to address his words. "The healing properties are minimal, but it should help you along until we can get you to a proper healer."

Kemmeron snorted a laugh, as weak as it was. Sanyon had also said of Ondolemar that the mer had selective hearing.

"Just try to stay awake," he urged and, with a magical sizzle, he leapt from a ledge into the first rays of sunlight Kemmeron had seen in days.


	12. The Escape

Estalenya had always laughed, telling Endarie that—if she and her sister could somehow become one person—they would have made the perfect operative. Taarie, despite previously living a life of leisure, had grown quite paranoid about her own well being after being swayed into the fold, and had taken up the blade without hesitation. She battled like a barbarian without question, training endlessly with old soldiers and swordsmen until she was like an orc in her prowess. Sure, Taarie grew to regret it when she realized that strong arms and broad shoulders made her look less dainty and refined, often obsessing in the mirror over how she had lost her womanly charms, but it was a small price to pay for her safety.

In contrast, Endarie never even figured out a proper sword stance. She had tried, once, and had promptly given up after her trainer kept insisting that she had no idea what she was doing. Her feet were never in the right place, her shoulders were held weird, the blade was being handled wrong, and she couldn't even _lift_ the greatsword. It was her ego that prompted her to choose a different path, one of least resistance with smaller weapons and a more practical use.

The life of a scout, it seemed, was where she excelled. Whereas Taarie was a metallic behemoth of pure pain, Endarie had mastered the art of moving undetected, of picking off threats before they were threatening, of figuring out enemy movements, and—of course—of running the hell away. Estalenya snickered often about the latter bit, citing that if there was just _one_ member of The Beautiful who hit as hard as Taarie and ran as fast as Endarie, that the Aldmeri Dominion would have been as shattered as their self-serving monument in Lillandril.

Staring down an angry mass of seemingly identical battle mages, conducted like undead minions by the motions and cries of their pitiful master, Endarie wished she _was_ that great operative. Disorienting blasts of magic cast all around her, causing her to dodge and weave like a rabbit cornered by a pack of wolves. Above the ruckus, she could hear Elenwen—furious but strangely amused—as she shouted orders over the top of their heads. Glancing up, she saw Rulindil almost frozen at her side, watching her with raised brows as though curious to see how much of a fight she could manage to put up.

She answered his question by ramming her knife in the gut of a mer who dared touch her hair, howling like a werebeast as she gave him a few more desperate blows. Clutching his stomach, he fell back, but was replaced by another no sooner than he dropped. He, too, looked almost identical to the others, devoid of any identity beyond "Generic Operative Twelve." In a way, it repulsed her, and she leapt at the replacement and carved his face from temple to jaw.

Endarie would have done worse if not for a sudden jolt of pain, her arms going temporarily numb as sparks traveled up her back. Gods damn the Altmer's inherent ties to magicka! It was a double edged sword for most, but little more than a curse for the single mer among the race who found herself completely inept at sorcery. She snarled and lurched to the side, turning with a roar of rage.

There were not as many as she had originally thought—six or seven, if she had to make a rough estimate—but still far too many for her to deal with alone. Had Taarie remained, perhaps something could have been done, but her sister had fled with that coward, Ondolemar. To think, she had once held a candle for that quivering, smart-mouthed, brash, arrogant son of a bitch. Good thing that Sanyon had shown her what a _true_ man was before his untimely demise.

Gradually, the feeling returned to her hands and she feinted a punch at the mer nearest her, using his distraction to duck under his guard and tear past him to the back stairwell. At least, she hoped it was the back stairwell, since she didn't relish the idea of running smack into Elenwen and her pet inquisitor. The sound of sorcerers sparking and hissing behind her urged her on as she scrambled up the stairs, a ball of fire whizzing past her head and exploding against the top landing. She could smell her hair burning but chose to ignore it, gritting her teeth as she hit the end and grabbed a hold of the edge of a table.

It wasn't a large table, but was cluttered with objects. Scooting it proved difficult and exhausting as the scattering of torture devices slid to the floor, but with a little adrenaline and effort, she forced it to the top to act as a barricade. Watching as the Altmer tailing her clawed over one another like pitiful zombies, she opted that the barricade would not hold, and instead rammed her hip into it as hard as she could. The table, as well as the iron weapons and embalming tools upon it, flipped down the stairs, knocking the first wave back and sending a few at the rear back _onto_ their rears.

Smirking, she whirled around. Within a second, she had a fairly good grasp of her surroundings: barrels covered in wood rot, racks of weapons, and a door that led to only the gods knew where. Her decision was instant and she flew to the door, flinging it open and racing into the next room. Body burning with anger, determination, and the after-effects of several spells, she dragged herself up another flight of stairs, snarling curses when she heard the door burst open behind her.

She scrambled awkwardly to the second floor, hardly paying any mind to the posh surroundings or the startled guard in gilded armor who froze like a statue at the sight of her. He seemed more horrified at the fact she was tracking mud and gore across the floor on her boots, staining what were likely priceless rugs made of unicorn hair and tiles crafted from the fingernails of a god. Sputtering and struggling for words, he could do little as Endarie plucked a silver plate from a lavish table and chucked it at him.

It spun through the air, his eyes growing wider the closer it approached until it cracked him in the face with enough force to make his nose pop. He hissed a curse and buried his face in his hands, though she was rather pleased to see he was bleeding. Sanyon would have been proud of her.

No, no. Sanyon _was_ proud of her, wherever he happened to be.

Taking the guard's distraction and suddenly aware there were men on her tail, Endarie bolted. The door was in sight, white light was visible through the windows, and she could practically smell freedom. All she had to do was make it outside, maybe scale a fence or squeeze through some bars. She was home free.

The illusion shattered when she felt something grab her, and she instinctively threw her elbow backwards. It connected with _something_, although it was hard to say what until she heard an elegant female's voice yell in the most unladylike fashion. The grip on her loosened and, just as something cold and fatiguing brushed against her back, she threw all of her weight at her goal.

The door burst open surprisingly easily, and there was a cry of alarm from the opposite side. A doorman, she presumed, although she found it difficult to see more than a few inches in front of her face. As though the gods themselves mocked her, it had seemed something of a nasty blizzard had kicked up between their entry into the aptly named "reeking cave" and her exit from the building. She could only hope it wasn't some trick of the Thalmor, dozens of mages managing to kick up some ferocious whirlwind of frost and snow. If that were the case, she was more of a sitting duck outside than inside.

Fighting against the frigid winds, Endarie threw herself out into the maelstrom. Lightning cracked above her, a thankfully misaimed spell, and she stumbled over the body of the fallen doorman who groaned in agony as her boots accidentally connected to a certain area that no shield spell could protect. There was no apology more than an angry insult as she gave him one more swift kick for good measure, squinting against the snow as she crept along the edges of the dark brickwork.

If she struggled, she could see a fence, tall and iron and jagged at the top. The spaces between the bars seemed too small for her to squeeze through. She cursed to herself, quietly this time, and continued to hug the wall. The further she edged along, the more apparent it became that the Thalmor were just as lost as she was, as soldiers and mages brushed past her by inches, blinded by the winds and calling desperately to one another over the howl of the blizzard. Sometimes, mer who seemed miles away would answer back, although usually nobody seemed able to hear. Even the sound of their armor clanking and their magic cracking seemed lost in the screams of nature itself.

She held her breath as somebody marched past her, appearing out of the white void before being consumed by it once more. It was tall, male, and spoke in a voice that made her skin crawl. She could make out his dark eyes, his _horrible_ face even through the veil, watching in disgust as he shouted some muffled order and was swallowed by white. If Rulindil knew that he had come within a breath of his quarry, he likely would have hit himself.

Endarie jumped when she felt her shoulder knock into something, and she instinctively whirled toward it with knife in hand. She expected a soldier and felt positively ridiculous when she realized said soldier had the texture of an Argonian and towered over her like a giant. The wind shifted direction and the fresh scent of pine struck her nose. Her breath came out in a shaky gust as she brushed her fingertips against green needles and crisp bark, and a smile threatened to tug at her lips.

She was against the building. The roof loomed over the fence like a god. This was her escape, a sign from the Eight to get the hell out. She smirked as she leapt up and wrapped her fingers around the lowest branches.

Climbing was simple. Since Endarie was a child, she had always had a knack for getting to places where others could not. Perhaps it was a talent she developed out of a desire to avoid the common folk, to clamber up out of their reach and lord over them like the superior lady she knew herself to be. Perhaps she just liked being able to do something her twin could not, something to set them apart. Regardless of the reason, she found it surprisingly simple to haul herself upwards, hand after hand and foot after foot as she scaled the branches like a ladder.

If anyone noticed, they said nothing. She waited worriedly for any sound of alarm, then crept across the thickest branch she could find towards the top. It swayed uneasily and threatened to break, a tell-tale crack signaling her need to go. Like a springing saber cat, she hurled herself forward, fingers latching onto the edge of the roof and her feet kicking wildly against the icy brick to push her forward.

She cursed and hissed and grunted, for a second fearing that she'd fall and kill herself before the Thalmor even had a chance. It was only through sheer luck that she managed to force her knee over the eaves, desperately clawing against the icy shingles until she miraculously found a gap. Still, the snow made her boots slide and she crawled precariously on all fours, breathing heavily as she tried to make it towards her escape.

From above, she could see her enemies better. The grounds swarmed with golden helms and black hoods, crackling bolts of fire being used as signals to one another, and one unfortunate soldier who walked circles around a gated flowerbed of lavender. This was the superior fighting force in Skyrim? She snorted a laugh despite the fact her heart thudded so powerfully that she couldn't hear her own thoughts.

Creeping to the edge of the roof, she could see the fence spread out below her, and a fall of indeterminate length beyond. She swallowed hard as she struggled to stand up on two feet, the slipperiness and the wind making it quite the chore. How was she to make a decent leap if she couldn't even stand? Despite the cold, sweat beaded at her temples and her brow furrowed in concentration as she shifted her weight, clenched and unclenched her fists, and breathed deeply.

The spikes at the top of the iron rods looked horrifying. A few feet shy, and she would find her entrails spilled across the ground, likely cursing herself in the few seconds before she died. Even if she made it, how far was the drop on the other side? She could see a stone jutting out of nowhere, but beyond the rock was _nothing_; nothing aside from a shroud of winter, a frosty tempest that would prove a whole other obstacle for her to overcome.

The gods had been kind to her thus far, however, despite the fact she had been singed and electrocuted, the ground beneath her was impossible to stand on, her fiancé was dead, and she had broken a nail. Still, she was alive, hidden from the horrible mer that swarmed beneath her like skeevers, and not a damn one of them had realized she was towering over them all.

Then a blast of fire landed at her feet. She jumped and cautiously peered over the edge, watching as the scattered soldiers began to cluster at her feet, blending together into some kind of writhing mass.

"Oh, goddamn it all," she snarled as she felt the ice give beneath her feet. She almost fell as it melted, but caught herself and scurried out of the way before a second orb of flame could smash into her. It exploded against the tower wall behind her and she hissed in pain as she felt the flesh bubble beneath the armor on her back.

If nothing else, with the ice melted, she had better traction. She stood far easier, despite the blasts of magic that soared past her, the wind blowing the spells off course although they still landed frighteningly close. Inhaling deeply, she bolted forth to the edge of the roof, her eyes never tearing away from the sharp spikes glistening in the white light.

If she made it, she would have to find the others. She had no idea where they planned to run to since, in Ondolemar's endless idiocy, he hadn't told them a back-up plan in case they were separated. She supposed they'd have to pass by Solitude, so she could always try questioning at the farms. If she didn't make it, however, she supposed it would be something of a mercy killing. Their new "leader" had dragged them into the deep end of the lake, and she'd much rather meet Sanyon in Aetherius than deal with whatever horrible scheme that imbecile could cook up.

She launched herself with surprising power but little grace. Warm gusts of air, born of gouts of flame and lightning, blasted against her chest. She closed her eyes when she felt the ground vanish beneath her feet, her heart rising and falling as she did.

Either she made it or she didn't. She wouldn't know until she opened her eyes.


	13. Shadowgreen

Taarie said the locals called it Shadowgreen Cavern, and Ondolemar was surprised at just how well it lived up to its name. In stark contrast to the empty fields of snow of northern Haafingar, it was rife with majestic trees, lush ferns, flowers of every kind and color, and every species of butterfly available in the province. Rabbits bounded happily across a stream that rushed to a crystal pond, overlooked by what appeared to be some manner of underground mountain where he could spy curious spriggans peering down from a spiraling path that wound ever upwards. They seemed benign, if not unnerving, their ethereal giggling occasionally echoing throughout the caves like a friendly ghost.

He had almost walked right past the cavern, propelled by stubbornness. Though his shoulder burned, his body heaved with exhaustion, and a sudden snowstorm had made it damn near impossible to see, he still gripped Kemmeron's unconscious form and pushed ahead. If not for his realization that Taarie could hardly keep up, walking with a pronounced limp as she trudged sadly behind him, he probably would have ignored the suggestion to seek shelter and have gotten them all lost in the frozen wilds of Skyrim.

Now that the adrenaline had worn off, he realized how much he _needed_ to stop. His magicka had been depleted and, in his state of exhaustion, wasn't returning to him as quickly as he would have hoped. The injury to his shoulder that he obtained in Markarth now throbbed painfully and, upon peeking inside the tear in his robe, he realized that it was far worse than he imagined: swollen and red with infection. His feet were numb from cold, his legs hobbled, and a pain was beginning to rise behind his eyes from a severe lack of sleep.

He felt like a carriage wreck and he knew he looked much the same.

He hadn't moved from his seat on a fallen log for what seemed like forever, his eyes clenched shut as he pinched the bridge of his nose in an attempt to relieve some of the pressure. Cold gusts of air from outside would occasionally blast against his back and he would tense, but he didn't even know if he had the energy to lift his head. His skull felt full of cotton, his eyelids were heavy, his body involuntarily swayed, and he had never felt so weak in his life.

Ondolemar had almost drifted to sleep when he heard the sound of Taarie's voice. He couldn't quite make out what she said, her voice drowned out by the roaring fire he had barely managed to start between them. Slowly, so as not to aggravate his headache, he craned his head up in her direction and cocked an eyebrow, the world a blur of earthy colors that eventually condensed into the form of the seamstress.

She was still mumbling, presumably to herself rather than him. Occasionally, her voice would rise and Kemmeron—curled up in a tight ball beside the warmth of the flames—would flinch as though threatening to wake. What she was carrying on about, Ondolemar couldn't be certain. Hopefully, the loss of her sister hadn't completely undone her.

It took a bit of effort, and the first noises out of his mouth came out as a croak. He couldn't believe how incredibly dry his throat had become. He hardly sounded like he was making words at all and, when Taarie whirled around at the sound, he found it slightly amusing that she was looking at him as though _he_ was insane.

"Come again?" she asked, although her voice lacked the playful lilt and snootiness he was accustomed to. She sounded very much the part of a mourner, her eyes lacking sparkle and her tone as empty as the hole Endarie had left in her absence. Ondolemar's lips tightened into a thin line; a sudden surge of guilt flushed through him like a deluge of cold water.

"Before I choked on my own words, I was trying to ask who in the hell you were talking to."

The words seemed harsh, but Taarie knew better. Even in her grief-stricken state, she cracked a hollow smile. She nodded, was silent for a second, then nodded her head toward the ground by her side. He couldn't see what she was gesturing to, given the campfire crackling between them, but she seemed to pick up on his bewildered expression. Against all odds, she laughed.

"I caught a skeever. Their hide is edible, yes?"

Ondolemar cringed, but nodded. He had seen them serve the charred skins of the rodents at the Silverblood Inn multiple times and knew that Igmund occasionally indulged in such a "snack." One of his guards had dared to taste it once and seemed to find it mostly agreeable, but he felt a twinge of nausea whenever the name "skeever" even came up. They always looked so ragged, so diseased, so _offensive_. How one could eat one without needing to drink a curing potion immediately afterward, he wasn't quite certain.

However, they didn't need to be skinned, which was probably the appeal. Considering that he felt like walking death and—between the two of them—he was the only one who knew how to properly dress an animal, he supposed he could swallow his pride and eat whatever dead thing Taarie threw over the fire. So long as he was fed and he wasn't expected to do anything, he'd deal with it.

Taarie slowly clambered to her feet, awkwardly trying to avoid placing too much pressure on her injured leg. He presumed she had hurt it in her descent from the trapdoor, and he felt a bit bad that he had dragged her so far. Ever resilient, she chose not to dwell on it, stiffly dragging the limb along as she sought for a stick big enough to skewer her prize.

"What mushrooms are edible?" she asked over her shoulder. Ondolemar sniffed.

"Mora topinella is typically the go-to for foragers, if I have heard correctly. The glowing ones, surprisingly enough, are safe. And fly amanita. _Only_ the fly amanita. Do not risk other species, unless you _want_ to kill us all."

"And blisterwort?"

"Safe, but it induces drowsiness. I don't think any of us particularly need help with that."

Taarie smiled wanly before picking a rather large branch from beside a fallen tree that had collapsed across the stream. After giving a nearby boulder a few whacks to test its durability, she shrugged and hobbled back. He watched, slightly amused, as she tried to figure out how one was supposed to impale a skeever on a stick. Her brows furrowed, she twisted both in her hands in bewilderment, then eventually settled for cramming it as far down its throat as she could manage before driving the stick into the dirt by the fire.

"Should we wake Kemmeron?" she asked. Ondolemar shook his head. There was no need, at least not yet. After all that he had been through, the poor bastard deserved to sleep more than any of them. If he was truly hungry, he'd wake at the smell of the rodent roasting over an open flame. If not, Ondolemar would simply stow some away for him.

The silence that fell between them afterward was depressing, the quiet giving him ample time to reflect on the past couple of days. His thoughts drifted to the look on Taarie's face, towards Endarie. Although she was a tough old girl, she was mad as hellfire about the death of Sanyon and he had no doubts that she would fight to the bitter end if it meant a stab at Elenwen. He thought of his guards in Markarth, who were good enough men if not misguided, and how they had probably felt so betrayed when they realized who it was who had a hold of them.

He thought of Kemmeron. The mer had dealt with more than he would ever care to, bludgeoned and battered within an inch of his life, refused food and water and gods only knew what else. Auri-El had obviously been with him although his friend, the human, was likely resting neatly at the bottom of the corpse chute. The state of her body had been repulsive even to Ondolemar, and he couldn't claim to be particularly fond of humans.

Mostly, he thought of Rulindil. His stomach churned. If there was one mer he wished he could coax away from Elenwen's side, it was him.

The mer had been his first acquaintance when he initially infiltrated the Thalmor, an idealistic grunt much like himself, although he worked for the opposing team. Try as he might to remain neutral to his peers, there was something _sincere_ about Rulindil that he had always admired, an earnest desire to change the world that reminded him of Saririil. He was the one justiciar throughout his "career" that he knew on a personal level.

He made the enemies sympathetic. The bastard honestly believed in what he was doing, rather than being some mindless machine of torture as others touted. Every blow of his weapon, every coldhearted kill was nothing more than a necessary evil that Ondolemar knew he cherished no more than anyone else. He merely grew numb to his job, just as he said many others had, for the sake of serving his beloved Dominion.

Of course, Ondolemar could never forgive him for what he had done. One glance at Kemmeron twitching in his sleep and a wave of anger washed over him like a red hot flood. It was simply difficult to detach himself, to _hate_ him knowing that he was just as dedicated to the wrong side as Ondolemar was to The Beautiful.

"Where do we go from here?"

Taarie's voice was like a beacon in a void. He glanced up at her and cocked an eyebrow, shoulders slumping.

"I told you. Southeast, away from the embassy, to less Thalmor-friendly lands."

"That isn't what I meant," she corrected, her voice suddenly stern. "We have Kemmeron at the cost of my sister. That much of your mission is accomplished. Where do we go from here? What is our grand plan?"

She seemed to take his moment of silence as uncertainty, and he could feel the anger in her gaze. It was though her eyes were burning a hole through him at the prospect of sacrificing Endarie for nothing. If only he was less stubborn, he'd confess it wasn't doubt but _tiredness_ that slowed him. Taking a deep breath and clearing his throat, he continued with weak gesturing of his hands.

"Sanyon and I managed to make off with copies of documents in the past. Everything seems to indicate that the Thalmor operations in Skyrim are completely hinged on prolonging the civil war. Should one side win, they'd have to very rapidly change their strategy, which could provide us with some manner of opening."

Taarie blinked in disbelief, practically snarling, "Your plan is to end the civil war?"

"It's nearing its end, according to Sanyon. That's why the Thalmor are so up-in-arms, why patrols have been increased, why they keep encouraging the Imperials to become lazy and withdrawn. This whole conflict is rapidly drawing to a close and they're making an effort to stall."

"And if one side wins?"

"Then both sides lose their distraction. It's only a matter of time before they turn on them in full force."

Taarie seemed to consider this, nodding. She still didn't seem to understand it beyond face value, but she was too flustered to do any more arguing. Perhaps when he was feeling more alive and she was feeling less dead, he'd explain all the things Sanyon had told him when he had asked questions once upon a time. He, too, had wondered how a tiny group of outsiders could sway a provincial conflict that had been raging since the end of the Great War, or what significance it would have had.

"Why not just take out Elenwen?" Taarie asked after a long silence.

"Because it would accomplish nothing. We strike her down, she will be replaced. We need to deliver a blow to the Aldmeri Dominion's forces as a whole."

This seemed to appease her, although she muttered something under her breath about taking the ambassador on as a bonus. A smile crept across Ondolemar's tired lips as he watched her limp to her feet, staggering to her smoking skeever. Most of its fur had burnt off, although it thankfully did not smell as strongly as he believed it would. She tested it tentatively, although the fact it still had any hair at all and was still far from browned was sign enough that it would be a much longer wait before they'd be able to eat.

As much as he would have preferred to deny it, the idea of eating the damned beast was beginning to sound less repulsive and more divine. In an effort to hide his unseemly drooling, he angled his head down and rested his mouth in his palms. His mind blanked, his eyes drifted, and for a second he feared he would fall asleep before he'd even be able to eat. The only thing that stopped him was realizing that Kemmeron had uncurled himself and was now shifted to his side, his brows furrowed and his eyes wide open.

He seemed to see something, something that he hadn't noticed. Taarie, either, although her back was turned to the both of them as she prodded at her kill and asked aloud how Endarie—if she was alive—would ever find them. He didn't answer, instead following Kemmeron's bewildered gaze until it came to rest on something looming in the brush near the cavern's entrance. The spriggans were suddenly quiet, their giggling replaced with a cold silence.

"Taarie."

His voice was matter-of-fact with no hint of alarm, a stark contrast to how he felt. She seemed baffled at first, turning with a listless cock of the head. It took her more than a couple of moments to realize that something was not quite right, and before long she too found herself staring in the same direction. Her bad leg gave beneath her and she growled a curse under her breath as she stumbled, knocking their skeever into the fire.

Blue cloth whipped in the wind and chain mail clattered with every twitch of muscle. Their blades glinted in the light as they edged closer, those with open helms visibly scowling. On the ground, Kemmeron tried to push himself upright, but collapsed at the furious yell of a pale-eyed woman with flaxen hair. She would have been beautiful if she wasn't advancing with an axe. Beautiful for a human, at least.

"Oh," Taarie drawled, panic bringing a little spice back to her voice. "This will not end well for us, will it?"

Ondolemar shook his head. Either Sai or Nocturnal had it out for him, that much was certain. Given how things had panned out, he supposed_ both_ were hiding behind a nearby rock, cackling at his misfortune. Slowly, he climbed to his feet and raised his hands in surrender, wobbling despite his best attempts to remain powerful in the face of certain death.

Of all the caves for a Stormcloak patrol to wander into, it had to be Shadowgreen Cavern.


End file.
